Above Ground
by Yin
Summary: AU. Dexter Grif really only ever wanted to keep himself and his sister out of trouble, and maybe get a few naps in while he was at it. But chance encounters end up putting him in the thick of a battle to save his home. ...Figures. {Grimmons, other pairings mentioned in fic.}
1. Chapter 1

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show's characters…they are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

* * *

Chapter One:

The dim lighting of the small mining tunnel blinked and flickered momentarily, threatening to plunge the entire corridor into pitch darkness.

"…The power's still shitty in this area too, huh?" Grif's voice was speaking in its usual lazy tone, and he was surprised at how he was still able to act apathetic given the situation.

Very few things unnerved him anymore, but being stuck in a small, enclosed space in total darkness _was not_ something he was all too keen on doing. …_Ever_.

It was bad enough that most of the worst moments of his young life always seemed to magically happen at night: their dad leaving for who-knows-where when Kaikaina was still a baby; their mother abandoning them for some weird sideshow freak act only a few years later; getting evicted from their shitty apartment only a couple months after that; having to live off the street until they could move into an even shittier apartment later on; those Above Ground dicks vandalizing and picking fights; Kai sometimes going missing and forgetting to even message him…just to name a few night-time instances he'd rather not dwell on.

But then his stupid friend Tucker had recently given him some information on some Earth animals called "bats" that kind of scared the shit out of him.

…Granted, he'd never seen anything remotely resembling the images of bats Tucker had shown him in The Slums and the vast networks of tunnels and mining shafts that were located around and below the underground settlement. It seemed fairly likely that the species hadn't even been transplanted from Earth before the means to travel to humanity's home-world had been cut off completely, but that didn't keep his imagination from seeing the damned things in every darkened corner he moved past now.

Knowing his luck, he'd probably find the only bat in existence on this colony world…and just then the power would kick off completely and some mutated, alien flying rodent would be biting his face.

He shuddered at the scenario, however implausible it probably was.

If the old miner he'd directed his initial question at took offense to that sort of language being used by an eighteen-year-old delivery boy, he gave no indication of it.

Instead, he cast tired-looking eyes over at the lighting panels off to the sides of the hallway. Wires were dangling from one of them in a rather haphazard way that no doubt wasn't up to any kinds of safety or power guidelines anywhere.

"…Name a place in The Slums where the power isn't shitty and I'll double your fee."

Grif spat off to the side, "And do extra work to find it? No thanks."

The old man smiled wryly, "Figured you'd say that even if it wasn't a damn near impossible task anyways."

He finished counting out the money he owed Grif on his credit chip for the supply run and Grif handed him the storage container of power cells needed to help run some of the equipment and portable lighting located further down in the corridor. It was always best to bring your own, just in case something _did_ finally cause the power to shut down in the shafts, after all.

"Do you want to help out here for some extra credit or do you have more rounds to do?"

The man would always ask thst question, though it was more routine now than him expecting a change in the boy's response. Maybe he was just hoping for Grif to reconsider his stance: mining was dangerous, yes, but it was honest work and the pay was better than most jobs people in The Slums could get and there were benefits too, which could help Kai as well. He'd been a former neighbor of the Grif siblings and had helped to set Grif up as an errand boy when he'd been desperate to support himself and his little sister. Now that Grif was of legal age, perhaps he thought that a mining job would be the safest bet for him.

Touched as he might be by the sentiment behind the question, Grif had no real desire or inclination to be a miner. The risks outweighed the benefits in his head and even without taking those into consideration, you were gone for days sometimes depending on the job since the resources closer to the The Slums were heavily depleted. Who knows what kind of trouble his sister could get into then? Well, Grif could _guess_…he just preferred not to for his own sanity.

Besides, the pay for doing odd jobs was decent enough now that he had established himself to make something of a living on. If Grif was comfortable with a routine, he was damned sure not to try to change it anytime soon.

"I have more rounds to do and I have to check on Kai still."

The older man nodded, "If you change your mind, let me know."

"Thanks." Grif gave a small wave and hurried off back towards the more well-maintained areas of The Slums, casting nervous glances in all directions to try to prevent imaginary bat attacks whenever the recess lighting dimmed and flickered.

* * *

Stepping back out into the overcrowded "metropolis" (_he was pretty sure that description was only used because "the shithole where most of the people lived" was too wordy_) that made up The Slums proper from the mining tunnels was always an odd experience.

Unlike in the tunnels and shafts, the cavern was relatively well-lit beyond the odd power glitches every area would have once in awhile and the need for constant maintenance work: a throwback from the days when the place had actually been established as a proper mining colony, before a majority of the valuable resources were completely depleted and the more privileged and tech-savvy colonists abandoned the place to live on the planet's surface away from the rest of the squabble once everyone realized that, for whatever reason, regaining contact with Earth or any of her other colonies or stations was a lost cause. …All of that had happened generations before Grif's time though, so he only knew the recorded accounts.

From what he could gather, the lighting was only a few shades dimmer than the sun of the old solar system since it had long been established that exposure to sunlight helped promote health. There was a built-in day and night cycle as well, to give people the sense of living outside.

…Of course, Grif had never seen the actual sun of the old solar system or been anywhere close to topside: you had to get a pass for that— which meant you were deemed "valuable" enough to live and work in Above Ground or the other alternative was that you were forcibly being brought up there as a prisoner or indentured servant. One of those things he doubted would ever be a possibility for someone like him, the other he'd be damned if he ever allowed to happen, so he had to take the records' words and what others said on the subject at face value.

He stepped out of the tunnel's entrance, the door sealing shut behind him with a soft "hiss" and rubbed his eyes as they watered while trying to adjust to the sudden influx of light beating down on them.

The Slums were huge: blocks of buildings built hastily around, upon, and over one another. There were maps and directories to try to explain the chaotic madness of the design scheme, but Grif never bothered trying to look at them. He doubted he'd ever see the entirety of the place and he'd grown up here. Whenever he was directed to go to an area he wasn't familiar with yet, he simply found the easiest route there and made a mental note about it. Finding a ton of different routes to a spot he'd probably only ever go to once or twice was far too much of a hassle.

There were "levels" to The Slums as well, with elevators or trans-shuttles one could take to the different subsections or one could use the mining tunnels and shafts, but you had to be familiar enough with them to not get lost and know which ones were in stable enough condition to still be used without any risks. The lower levels were the most cramped and uncomfortable to live in levels. Naturally, they were the most densely populated areas, though population relocation projects were being implemented to move people to the higher levels as residential buildings were finished being constructed.

In a way, Grif supposed the layout and housing areas of The Slums had probably made a lot more sense when the planet had first been established as a mining colony. There had been a lot less people then, after all.

But once The Council had been established after all contact with Earth had been lost and resources became limited, things had changed. The population had started to increase, and mining was no longer a means to provide for everyone.

Once the surface of the planet had been successfully terra-formed, it had first been thought that most people would be moved to Above Ground. But The Council only picked about half the population to live there at the time and sealed off the entryways topside to everyone else.

While living mostly forgotten and cut-off from their more "privileged" counterparts, the entire population of The Slums were effectively their prisoners as well given the superior technology The Council had brought with them to Above Ground. Grif had heard mention of really advanced A.I.s that were still being approved upon even now for instance, but he had no idea whether or not that kind of talk was just hearsay.

History records usually showed that any protests went badly and caused more restrictions on supplies for the entire Slums area.

…Above Grounders were assholes then and they were still largely assholes now whenever they showed up. It wasn't a big shock to Grif that things had always been that way.

Grif supposed that, initially, his family had almost qualified as luckier than most. While not located on the topmost level with its cavernous overhead, they'd been living in one of the less crowded midlevel areas set up for residents. Things had almost been downright decent then.

It hadn't lasted, though: once both of their parents were out of the picture the young Grif siblings learned all sorts of grown-up words like "rent" and "taxes" in quick succession. Their parents' less-than-stellar reputations made it hard for any of their neighbors to want to have the two children living with them for more than a short term basis and, truthfully, there wasn't a ton of room in residency housing for two extra mouths either given how small most apartments were. They'd been shipped down to the lower levels pretty soon after, where the homeless, squatters, and the cheapest places to rent or buy were.

But it wasn't too horrible an experience, all in all. …Save for Kai crying a ton: _that_ was one memory Grif tried to constantly get out of his head.

It had made the horribly lazy, disinterested in everything Dexter Grif become responsible and a somewhat functioning member of society: stepping in to fill the roles of both absent parents for his heartbroken little sister. That counted for something, at least.

And while their former neighbors couldn't offer them permanent housing due to their own personal dilemmas, many of them, like the miner he'd just helped out, gave him contacts that helped to establish Grif as an all-around errand/delivery boy in The Slums. With the money he had gotten from that, he and Kai had been able to afford a surprisingly decent for the cheap price place to call "home"— once they could afford new locks and a security system later on down the road, of course.

…And they'd also found a new friend in Tucker, too. He'd been the first person to introduce himself to the two when they had first moved to Low Town, the name for the lowest level residency area— and when he wasn't trying to practice putting his questionable "dating moves" on Kai for which Grif would repeatedly threaten to kick his ass for given that his sister was four years younger than the two boys, he was a pretty decent guy.

…It had been quite a few years since then, and all in all— Grif couldn't complain too much about the way things were going for him now.

Well, he could be working less, but he supposed that was just a sacrifice he'd have to make.

The mining tunnel entrance he had just used was located in the sprawling expanse of Level One. It was just as busy as anywhere else in The Slums, but the high-vaulted ceilings towering high overhead gave the illusion of it having more space.

Sometimes, he would climb the ladders and walkways to reach the rafters and support beams keeping the rock above from collapsing on top of the settlement when he just wanted to get away for a little while. It made for an impressive napping spot, his favorite pastime of all.

…But he still had some jobs to do, sadly— so any impromptu naps would have to be avoided despite how oh-so-tempting they were once the thought of them was lodged firmly into his brain.

Sighing in disappointment at the reminder of the work ethic he despised, but still needed to have at the moment Grif went through a mental checklist of the jobs he needed to do still to see if he'd be lucky enough to have one close by.

The only one on Level One he actually had was on the other side of the area from where he was right now. He groaned loudly at the realization.

…That nap idea was getting more and more tempting by the minute.

* * *

"…Guess what happened while you were away!"

Lavernius Tucker's amused tone and the mischievous glint in his brown eyes indicated that whatever it was that had happened was more entertainment to him than a bad thing.

Grif, only mildly curious because _damn it_ he was tired still, looked at his neighbor crossly.

…Well, that, and he was still kind of mad about the whole "bat" situation.

"What?"

Tucker shrugged indifferently at his reaction, "Well if you're going to act that way, you can just forget it. Maybe I'll go tell Kai instead…"

Not sure if it was something he would want his little sister knowing yet or not, Grif sighed, "Sorry, Tucker, I just got home and I'm a little tired."

"Dude, you're always a little tired. I'm surprised you actually get any work done at all." Tucker's comment was a joke, but he almost sounded somewhat impressed.

"And I had to go into the mining shafts too." Grif shuddered.

"So?" the blank look on the other teen's face made it pretty apparent that he didn't see the issue, "You have to go in them pretty much every other day."

"Yeah, except now I have to worry about bats!"

That took a moment to sink in, but the second it did Tucker burst out laughing, and Grif was seriously considering killing him— even if that probably meant Tucker's mother would never give him or Kai desert again. …It was that thought alone that kept him only glaring at his friend murderously instead.

"Are you shitting me?" the dark-skinned boy managed to get out in-between gasps of air and fits of laughter, "I'm pretty sure if there were actually bats on this planet they would have bitten you a long time ago, fatass."

"Yeah, well I wouldn't have even known about the damn things if you hadn't said anything!" he countered, tan cheeks flaring red in embarrassment.

"…Your paranoia's all on you, dude." Tucker practically had _tears_ in his eyes from laughing so hard. Grif thought of delicious home-baked cake and other sweets, counting back from ten as he waited for him to finish.

Once the laughter at his expense died down, Tucker managed to get back to business rather quickly, "So…you want to hear about what happened or not?"

They were standing in the common area just outside the residential district in Low Town where both of their apartments were located. There were a few businesses, seedy shops and mechanics, and some food stalls nearby…along with several people either going about their way or shooting the breeze like they were. Grif tried to ignore some of the homeless people sleeping around the area— there seemed to be more of them now and it made him nervous that there was going to be another increase in taxes or rent sometime soon.

Truthfully, he _had_ worked pretty much everywhere today so he'd rather just go home and sleep after checking up on Kai, but he was somewhat curious about whatever seemed to be getting Tucker so excited. Usually that meant interesting news, at least: he wasn't quite sure how he did it, but Tucker was even more knowledgeable about what was going on in The Slums than Grif was a lot of the times.

"…So what happened then?" he asked the other boy.

Tucker leaned over closer to him conspiratorially, "Some Above Grounders managed to get all the way down here to Low Town!"

"Really?" Grif blinked.

That _was_ surprising.

Every couple of days or so, someone from Above Ground would sneak down into The Slums…usually teenagers who just liked to see if they _could_ do it in the first place.

They would cause a lot of problems: "pranks" by their definition (_"vandalism" by most others'_), and they would disappear back to their haven above to talk all about their experiences with "slumming."

But they usually never went too far past the upper levels: too much effort or maybe they were just scared of being too cut off from their escape routes back to the surface. They were a pain and a hassle, but nothing that affected Grif too much personally— if he got accosted by one of them during rounds usually in an attempt by one of them to look "tough" to his cohorts, a quick skirmish was just the thing to get them off of his back.

But for some of them actually to be here in Low Town…he wondered what kind of determined mischief-makers they were dealing with this time.

"Yeah," Tucker nodded his head in affirmation to Grif's surprised response, "From what I gather though they've just been doing the same stupid bullshit they always do: messing up things and just being their usual asshole selves. Teenagers around our age, I guess. …Probably blowing off steam before they're enrolled in the military."

Right, Grif had forgotten that it was pretty much mandatory for kids their age who were Above Ground citizens to spend at least a few years getting military training. It had always made him sort of glad he hadn't been born there: he knew he really didn't want anything to do with that sort of thing. …Too structured and with too many rules for his slacker lifestyle.

He could almost sympathize with the kids who just wanted to escape for a few days down here from all of that— if they didn't tend to be such dicks while they were visiting, at any rate.

A new thought crossed his mind then and he glanced around, "Where's Kai?"

Right, normally both her and Tucker would be waiting around here for him to get off of work. And if there was one thing about the fourteen-year-old was that worried him even more than anything else, it was that his little sister could be a horrible judge of character sometimes.

Tucker seemed to figure out his line of thinking pretty quickly, "Relax, Grif, my mom had a panic attack when she heard the news and made up some excuse about needing help running some errands to keep Kai out of trouble. She's with her."

Grif visibly relaxed. Tucker's mom had taken a pretty strong liking to little Kai when they had first moved here and always tried to keep her from getting into too much trouble as a result of that when Grif wasn't around: a task that Grif was always grateful and amazed for given how sometimes Kai could even get on his last nerves at times, especially now that she was older and getting into all sorts of trouble he'd never dreamed his little sister would get into earlier in their lives.

"Besides, if I see anyone acting suspicious near her, I'll kick their asses myself." Tucker said, momentarily surprising Grif with how serious he sounded.

Grif nodded appreciatively at the comment, glad that Tucker and his mom were such helpful neighbors, "Thanks, Tucker, though you'll have to beat me to them first."

Grif was generally lazy and good-for-nothing when it came to most things (of his own volition, of course: he had no doubt he could actually do a lot of things quite well if he could be bothered to do them— look at what he'd done with his small errand business, after all), but the one thing that seemed to motivate him at all was his little sister. It was mainly because he had been so focused on being the parental figure in her life that he did pretty much _anything_ now.

"Dude, all of this bromancing has seriously worked up an appetite and maybe a need for bleach cleaner for my brain." Tucker looked at him expectantly, "You're paying, right?"

"What? Since when did we agree to that?"

"My mom and Kai are having dinner out and you just got paid, right?" Tucker's voice was pleading.

"…Don't you have your own job?" Grif grumbled, though he was already fishing out his credit chip regardless. He supposed he did owe Tucker and his mom a little bit, and it wasn't like the food stalls in Low Town were anything expensive anyways.

"Oh, I got fired a couple weeks ago from that one. Apparently the manager wasn't too thrilled I used my "angel" pickup line on this really hot chick." The boy paused, frowning, "It's not my fault though! I didn't even know he had a wife!"

"…It's surprising you haven't gotten shot yet."

Tucker grinned mischievously, "Who says I haven't been shot at? I just know when to run really fast."

* * *

While there were some mumblings about the Above Grounders who had managed to sneak all the way down to Low Town, it didn't really alter the way things operated down there all that much. It was the same thing whenever some of them snuck into The Slums in general: everyone still had their lives to live, so things still happened pretty much the way they always did.

…So long as you weren't one of the people they chose to give a hard time to or whose property they vandalized or "borrowed"— things were fine.

If you happened to be one of those unfortunates, well, life just sucked and there wasn't much you could do about it. There were no legal recourses one could take against Above Grounders in particular since Slum residents weren't considered proper citizens in the first place.

So, after Tucker's initial comment on the topic, Grif had kind of let the matter drop from his head. He had to focus on keeping Kai out of trouble and on his work too.

"Dex, look at this one!"

Grif groaned inwardly, glancing over at the tank top that his sister was gushing over in the store window.

"…Not in a million years, Kai."

She pouted, "You suck!"

It was their usual mode of interaction when they met outside of home and Grif wasn't busy with errands. They argued, but never to any vehement level. In a weird way, Grif had gotten used to the routine: they'd started doing it after their mom had left, probably to avoid thinking of any subjects that were too serious or too unsettling to dwell on at the time.

"What I don't get is why they always make clothes gray."

"It's red." Not a color Grif was particularly fond of himself, "Maybe we should get that color blindness of yours tested again."

The fourteen-year-old frowned, "I didn't like doing that the first time. Those doctors were worse than cops!"

…Well, Grif couldn't argue there. When she was younger, a lot of people had been curious about Kai's medical condition because it was something that usually only affected men: they had been far too enthusiastic in trying to research it, which had understandably freaked the then only three-years-old girl out.

Her law enforcement issues came from how the two of them were treated when they had been evicted from their previous home. Grif couldn't necessarily blame her for either viewpoint, really.

While he was mulling things over, Kai wandered off further down the street. She paused and frowned, noticing the broken window of another storefront.

"…Looks like somebody was having a fun time." She mumbled.

Her brother frowned, joining her and noticing how it looked like some of the items had been rummaged through amidst the broken pieces of glass in the display, "Vandalism, it looks like, and some thieving too."

And usually, especially in a more populated/secure area in the middle levels like this…that tended to mean one sort of person would do something in that vein since other residents would know better and probably wouldn't risk it. He looked around briefly, wondering if the perpetrators were still in sight but seeing no one but familiar strangers and acquaintances he'd passed this way before.

The girl looked thoughtful, "Hey, Dex?"

"Yeah?"

"If people living in Above Ground have everything, why do stuff like this at all?"

Grif blinked, not sure of how to respond at first, "…Because they're assholes?"

"…They can't all be, though." It was odd to see Kai so serious, it was almost unnerving in a way.

"Well, probably not." He agreed, "But the only ones I've met down here have been."

"Yeah, most of the ones I've met have been too." The girl mumbled to herself, preoccupied with her own thoughts.

_Wait…what?_

Something about Kai's comment caused her older brother to ask her to elaborate, but she quickly chose to change the subject instead whenever he tried bringing it up again and he never got a clear answer from her after that. …Much to his annoyance.

* * *

It was only a few days later when Grif finally put two and two together about what Kai had meant earlier.

…Unfortunately for him, the whole episode kind of made him seem like a major asshole afterwards— but, oh well.

"…And here are the cables you were asking for."

Once the money was on his chip from the last exchange of the day, Grif headed back to Low Town with a tired-albeit-happy skip to his step.

He'd had to go into the mining tunnels again and scavenged the requested items from conduits no longer in service. Fair game to anyone if they could get to them at that point: the sooner the conduits were picked clean, the sooner possible hardware updates could be done or there was no longer any reason to hold back on using abandoned tunnels for storage for more active areas of the mines. He then had to trek them to Level Three by himself too, but that meant extra money in his pocket since he didn't have to go through any sort of middle man for the items. Besides, since the cables were harder to find, he was able to haggle an even better price for them too.

…Maybe he'd take a break tomorrow then, go somewhere fun with Tucker and Kai.

Or he could just nap the day away too: napping was fucking _awesome_.

He was in such a good mood that he even opted to pay the small fee to ride one of the public transport elevators down to Low Town. If he got home quick enough, maybe he could catch Kai and they could grab a quick bite to eat in celebration.

The crowd of people that had been crammed into the elevator along with him thinned out once it reached its destination, and he made his way to the exit— only having to push his way past a few of the more impatient people who didn't want to wait the couple of extra seconds to get out of the lowest levels of The Slums while people were disembarking from the elevator still. He muttered a few choice words about them under breath, but they seemed too caught up in their own businesses to care much about an annoyed eighteen-year-old who they probably felt had mildly inconvenienced them already by choosing to leave the elevator at that exact moment.

"D—does it hurt still?" a nervous voice caught his ears, the more shrill quality to it causing it to stand slightly higher in decibel range from the din of voices all around him in the crowd, "Where…where can I get some ice?"

"It's okay now. It hurt like a bitch when it happened though. …Fucking asshole."

What had just been slightly louder random background noise a few seconds ago suddenly took on a whole new level of clarity when the second voice Grif heard registered in his mind.

_Kai!_

He swiveled his heard around, trying to figure out where she was exactly.

Off to either side of the transport elevators were benches meant for public use, usually used by people if they were waiting for the elevators to become active in the morning or if they were planning to meet someone entering the lower levels. …Or, occasionally, someone homeless would use them to sleep on until security forced them to relocate.

He saw Kai sitting down on one of them, a grimace plastered on her tan face. Standing in front of her, wringing his hands helplessly, was a tall pale boy around his own age that he had never seen before. The boy was looking thoroughly panicked.

As Grif approached them, he could see just why the boy was so upset: Kai's left hand was clasped around a bloody piece of tissue just above her right elbow. There was a pretty big cut on her forehead with blood dripping down her face and a pretty nasty-looking bruise on her cheek just under her right eye too.

"…What happened?" he was standing over her in about two seconds flat, concern intermixing with the need to figure out what exactly had transpired in the first place.

Neither Kai nor the boy she was with had been expecting his sudden appearance and the girl nearly jumped from her spot on the bench when he showed up.

"Dex? What the hell? Don't fucking do that!" she looked almost embarrassed once she realized her surprised reaction and just what she looked like at the moment, "I…I thought you'd be later." She mumbled.

"I got off early." He frowned, glad now that he had, "And don't try to change the subject. What the fuck happened?"

Kai blanched slightly at the serious tone in his voice and looked down at the scraped skin above her elbow. It looked even worse upon closer inspection, as her skin had been rubbed off from right above her elbow to almost her wrist— Grif tried not to look at it too directly at the moment until he got some answers first. Both it and the cut looked bad enough that she'd need antiseptic once they got home, which he knew from past experience she wouldn't like because it hurt a lot.

"Those Above Grounder dicks were here and giving my friends a hard time, so I told them to fuck off." She said finally, hurrying through the story before Grif could lecture her for being too confrontational around the wrong types of people again, "One of them got mad and pushed me into a bench. I think I got hurt mostly from hitting that. …And the fall."

"…And the dragging afterwards too." The unknown boy muttered after her. Kai's expression became even darker at that, as though it were a memory she'd rather not think back upon anytime soon and she shuddered.

"Where are your friends now?" Grif had never liked the crowd his sister chose to spend time with. The fact that they weren't here at all sort of confirmed his suspicions on that end.

"…Gone." Her defeated tone seemed to indicate she had realized the same thing about them too now.

"And the Above Grounders?" his voice was surprisingly calm, especially since at the moment all Grif was seeing in his vision was red.

"Gone too." Kai motioned with her head to the lost-looking redhead who had been anxiously listening in on their exchange this whole time, "Except for him."

And that's pretty much the moment when Grif lost it.

If he had been thinking clearer he probably would have been able to put the pieces together well before Kai explained to him later on how the boy hadn't really been friends with the jerks who had hurt her, how it had actually been him who had stopped them from dragging her off who-knows-where when her "friends" had abandoned her, and how he had been trying to help patch up her injuries afterwards.

But at that moment? His little sister was hurt and Grif wasn't thinking at all, just reacting.

And his fist ended up connecting pretty hard with the boy's freckled face as a result of that.

…Admittedly, he felt rather bad about it in hindsight, though.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: My first multi-chapter story in a long while (just to prove I could still do one, haha!). _RvB_ is a powerful influence on me for some reason, which I love about it. :)

At any rate, I have an outline already for the direction I want the story to go in…so it shall be an adventure to see if I actually end up keeping with that or changing things the more I write! I'm already working on the second chapter, so hopefully it will be posted somewhat soon. I'm planning on the first couple of chapters being more introductory/set-up for the AU world of this fic and to introduce the two main characters (Grif and Simmons), along with a few others in the cast…and then I'm going to be doing a timeskip to help move the plot along. At which time, I think more of the characters will be introduced. Many of the characters from Season 1 – Season 11 will have roles in the stories, though a few might just be mentioned instead of actually shown depending on what happens in the plot later…and who knows? Since I'll be writing this while Season 12 is airing, I might end up throwing in a few characters from that as supporting players if inspiration strikes me!

Aside from the obvious Grimmons pairing, other pairings later on will include Yorkalina, Chex, Sheila X Lopez, at least past mentions of Insurrection Leader X CT, and possibly Doc X Donut. I might be doing either Washington X Tucker, Tucker X Kimball, or Kimball X Felix as possible pairings too…I just haven't decided the direction I want to go in that regard yet (won't be until after the timeskip that two of those characters will even show up, so I have some time to think on it!).

…And, that's about it and this will probably be the longest Author's Note I write for the story. Special thanks as well to my sister who volunteered as beta reader for me! And thank you very much for taking the time to read this chapter, and my goal is to definitely finish this fic…just to prove to myself that I can. :)


	2. Chapter 2

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show's characters…they are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

* * *

Chapter Two:

"…I said I'm sorry, okay?" Grif's voice was warped with exasperation at this point, "What else do you want from me?"

"Yeah, you apologized to me, ass-face!" his sister was scowling up at him, the bruise on her cheek now just a faded purple and yellow splotch instead of the ugly darker coloration it had been earlier- the cut on her forehead and rubbed raw skin on her arm both now bandaged quite nicely, "Why don't you apologize to that gray-haired kid you knocked out?"

He sighed, "Look, apologizing for something like that's kind of a hassle and I have no idea where he went anyways."

That part was true, at least. He'd stormed off angrily with Kai in tow to get her properly treated after having decked the kid and by the time he was back to rational thought or what at least amounted to it in his brain, more likely, and actually listened to Kai's protests- the Above Grounder was nowhere to be found.

It wasn't as if he didn't feel guilty enough about the misunderstanding. Kai's pointed guilt trips were not making him feel any better.

Sensing that the two were possibly getting into an argument again, Tucker cleared his throat. They were all hanging out in the Grif siblings' apartment, in the tiny space that served as a living room/kitchen area. Grif had opted to take the next few days off given what had happened to Kai: one of the benefits of being his own boss, he supposed.

"It's sort of funny though, if you think about it. I mean, who knew you had a berserk button for anything other than food?" he joked, trying to lighten the mood.

He gulped when both siblings stared pointedly at him and he barely had enough time to duck before the magazine that Kai had been reading and the soda can that Grif had just emptied crashed into the wall just above where Tucker's head had been moments before.

"You both suck!"

* * *

If that had been the last time Grif had ever encountered the strange kid from Above Ground, he would have chalked the incident up to a regrettable encounter from his past and just that. Something to be embarrassed about, but a memory he could easily enough push to the back of his mind as the years slipped by.

As it happened, surprisingly enough, it was the other teenager himself who ensured that their first encounter wasn't just a chance one.

Kai didn't seem too bent out of shape at all from her ordeal beyond still guilt-tripping Grif over his actions and deciding to end a few friendships for which Grif was sort of grateful for, if nothing else. She was soon back to her cheerful, carefree self in no time.

The only real permanent physical mark she would have was a small scar from the forehead cut whenever it healed completely, but all things considered, her injuries could have been a lot worse.

After two days, she got fed up with her big brother's fussiness and kicked him out of the apartment: threatening to change the lock on him if he didn't stay away for a little while and give her some space. Which, naturally, Tucker thought was all sorts of hilarious when he heard about it later.

So, for better or for worse (probably more "for the worse" given his general stance towards work), Grif went back to running errands.

It was well into midmorning after he finished delivering spec estimates from a mechanic in Level One to a potential client who never had their computer terminals on to check for messages that Grif had the oddest sensation that he was being watched.

Frowning, the eighteen-year-old quickly darted his head behind him and to the right, surprised to see a quick flash of red darting into one of the nearby side-alleys.

Grif's frown deepened, as he could think of only one person he'd encountered recently with red hair.

…Was that Above Grounder really following him? And why?

The only reason he could really think of was that he was (understandably, justifiably even) pissed at Grif for their earlier interaction and was possibly waiting for an opportunity to confront the other boy about it.

Grif sighed, not really wanting to deal with this at all but knowing that he probably should: the whole thing had been one big misunderstanding and he'd admittedly been a pretty big asshole over it, so he should at the very least take responsibility for what he had done.

…Sometimes being responsible sort of sucked major balls.

Dragging his feet somewhat, he headed reluctantly towards the side-alley he had seen the figure disappear into.

Peering in cautiously (not that he expected a crowbar to the face or anything), he almost thought perhaps it had been his imagination playing tricks on him. Nothing was there but crates and garbage, until something in a distinctly maroon-looking color moved and shrunk behind a pile of crates in the middle of the alley.

The teenager was pretty good at disappearing, Grif had to give him that- if he hadn't moved his shoulder that centimeter just then probably thinking he'd been too exposed or something, Grif would have probably overlooked him entirely.

"Hey, I know you're there! Come out already!" he called, stepping completely into the alleyway.

There was a distinctly not very impressive sounding yelp from the hiding spot and after a few more uncomfortable minutes of silence the person emerged from behind the crates, looking decidedly sheepish.

He'd been right: the person following him had been the Above Grounder who had helped Kai out.

…Complete with a yellowing bruise about the size of Grif's fist on the left side of his face. Okay, Grif kind of felt like a major asshole again upon seeing that.

He waited for the other boy to say something, but the kid seemed hesitant to even look Grif in the eye let alone ream him out for what he had done. His face was turning an odd shade of red and green eyes were darting in every direction but directly at Grif- as if he was trying to calculate if he could make some sort of escape attempt.

Finally, Grif got fed up with waiting and sighed.

"Look, if you're pissed at me I can understand why…" he folded his arms across his chest, "So if you want to hit me to make it even, go ahead. I won't fight back or anything."

His words seemed to do the trick, because two very wide eyes were suddenly fixed directly on him.

"H-hit you?" the Above Grounder stammered out in surprise, "Why…do you think I'd want to hit you?"

Grif raised a black eyebrow at that, "Uh, because I got mad and wailed on you when you hadn't done anything?"

"Oh." It seemed as if that was the first time such a notion had even occurred to the other teen.

"…Why else would you be following me if you weren't mad about that?" Now it was Grif's turn to be confused.

He hadn't thought it was possible, but the boy's face became even redder- almost matching the hues of his hair and shirt.

"Um…" he seemed to be trying to think of something to say in response and failing miserably.

Grif wasn't quite sure if he should be amused by the turmoil the redhead was going through or feel pity instead.

Before he could say anything, however, the boy finally seemed to think of something to say, "How…how is she?"

Oh, so maybe he'd been following him just to check up on Kai. That made sense, he supposed. The only reason he probably hadn't felt comfortable asking him directly about her was because of what had happened before.

…Now Grif kind of felt like an even bigger dick.

"She's pretty much recovered now." He smiled sardonically, "Though she's pretty pissed at me for punching you like I did."

The boy seemed relieved at the news, even smiling slightly at Grif's joke about himself.

"Seriously, though, if you're mad at me, go ahead and hit me. One time offer."

Oddly enough, the suggestion only seemed to annoy the other boy, "What would hitting you do?" he asked, somehow even managing to work up the nerve to glare at him.

"…Make us even?" Now it was Grif's turn to be perplexed. What was this kid's problem?

"For what? I'm not mad at you." He seemed somewhat more at ease now that they had been talking for a little while.

"But, I hit you for no reason." Grif protested.

_And left your ass there and didn't apologize until just now_…though he kept quiet on that last part.

"You were upset." The boy looked at him appraisingly, "That girl…she's your family, right?"

"Sister." Grif blinked, surprised at the comment, "How'd you know?"

The boy's face became incredibly red again, "Your reaction to what happened to her. And…" his voice became barely audible at the next part, "You both look alike."

"We do?"

He had heard that a few times, when they were both younger. But now that they were grown…well, he supposed beyond the similar skin tone, hair, and eye colors as both had the same tan skin, black hair, and brown eyes- he didn't really think they looked all that similar.

Kai was definitely a looker, for starters (already getting all sorts of attention for it, much to his chagrin)…whereas, while he thought he was all right looking and not that self-conscious about that kind of thing anyways, he didn't really think he'd ever win any awards for handsomeness. Any talk about him and Kai looking that much alike anymore had stopped awhile ago, so he hadn't really thought their family resemblance was that strong nowadays.

The other boy nodded, but for some reason had clammed up on this topic of conversation. Not that Grif really cared, though he wondered why saying you thought someone bore a family resemblance to another person would be grounds for getting embarrassed in the first place, but the Above Grounder seemed pretty socially anxious in general.

"She's only fourteen." He figured he might as well get the protective older brother shit out of the way to help move the conversation along, "So don't get any funny ideas or I _will_ hit you again."

That did the trick. The boy's face became a decidedly tomato hue and he shook his head emphatically, "I—I wouldn't! I mean…she's really pr—pretty and all, but…"

"Breathe, dude." Grif was torn between protective urges at the "pretty" comment (so he had been thinking something then!), amusement at the obvious discomfort the other boy was in, and genuine worry that the teenager might hyperventilate and pass out on him.

…That last outcome would probably be a pretty big pain to deal with.

Apparently though, the almost-smirk that was forming on Grif's face in terms of the "amusement" factor was visible enough that, to his credit, the other teenager actually _glared_ at him and was able to finally plow through his embarrassment.

Grif was sort of impressed, in a way.

"W—what I meant before was that I understood why you lost it earlier. So I wasn't mad then." The last remark came with a decidedly pointed look in Grif's direction, which only furthered his amusement, "Besides, given who it was that hurt her…"

The boy's voice had trailed off, and he looked down at the ground guiltily. Which, admittedly, sort of made Grif feel bad again about the whole thing.

"…Were they your friends?" he asked quickly, not really liking the uncomfortable silence that had descended upon them again.

A very emphatic headshake to further illustrate his point, "They're assholes. They just followed me down here."

That comment caused Grif to do a quick double-take, "You mean you'd come down here by yourself?"

He was actually more than a little impressed by that. From what he could gather, it was something of a challenge to sneak past the security points into The Slums- which is usually why Above Grounders who did it tended to be in groups.

The boy in the maroon shirt seemed to misinterpret Grif's reaction as disbelief. He blushed again, halfway looking irritated and expectant of such a reaction, "I'm…good at hacking." He muttered.

"Oh. So you're a nerd then."

That kind of made a whole of sense to Grif, honestly.

The other teen's shoulders slumped at Grif's actually-not-really-intending-to-sound-as-insulting-as-it-came-across remark as if he were a deflated balloon. He sighed.

"…That's sort of cool, actually."

His head jerked up suddenly at Grif's remark and he looked at him with his mouth hanging open in surprise. It almost seemed as if he were so unused to hearing praise that he didn't know how to even react to it. Grif really didn't want to dwell on how that was pretty sad, if one thought about it too much.

So he plowed on, hoping that maybe if he talked more the desperate look on the other boy's face would go away, "I mean…I can barely use some of the crappy tech we have here, so I don't think I'd ever be able to bypass the security sealing Above Ground out." He grinned in self-deprecating humor, "It probably would be entertaining as fuck for someone to see me try though."

The boy still resembled one of those Earth animals called a "deer" caught in the headlights he'd seen on old video reels, but once Grif's words sunk in and he realized he wasn't being made fun of he smiled slightly. His smile wasn't bad, when he wasn't too self-conscious or unsure about it.

"So if those assholes weren't your friends and you were trying to help my sister out you don't have anything to feel guilty about. And I'm still a dick for taking it out on you."

"Um…" he didn't seem quite sure of how to respond to that logic.

"So, since you refuse to punch me back and Kai's still pissed at me, why don't you let me make it up to you?" Grif sighed, trying to make amends was far too much work- he was starving now with all of the effort it was taking.

"…H—how?" the boy looked at him in confusion.

Before Grif could respond, however, a loud gurgle filled the space between them. The redhead's face went red again, his green eyes looking down in horrified embarrassment at his growling stomach.

Grif grinned, thankful that the sudden solution to his moral dilemma had such good timing for him as well.

* * *

"That was…kind of disgusting."

Grif belched loudly, not phased at all by the weird grimace on the pale boy's face as he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then wiped that absentmindedly on his pant leg. …Kai had told him before that was gross, but who was he ever trying to impress anyways?

"What was? The food?" he tried thinking back on what they'd just eaten: some kind of chicken and rice dish. A bit healthier than he normally cared for, but he'd been starving and really hadn't wanted go waste effort looking for another place when that one had been _right there_. He frowned, "I didn't think it was that bad. …For healthy shit."

Maybe Above Grounders had a shitload more sophistication when it came to their palettes? If that was the case, he was going to mock the kid now that he considered them even.

"No, the food was good." The redhead was looking pointedly at him, "What was disgusting was watching you inhale five plates of it!"

"…I was hungry." He shrugged.

"You nearly swallowed the silverware!" he shuddered at the memory, "I'm surprised you didn't unhinge your jaw just to get more food in."

"You mean like a snake?" Grif honestly wasn't sure if he should feel insulted or not at the comparison.

…Truthfully though, having a jaw that unhinged probably would help him cut down on all those wasted seconds he spent having to chew things like a chump.

He tensed visibly at Grif's snake comparison, "Fuck! I wish you hadn't mentioned snakes."

Grif smirked, "A snake-phobe, are we?"

Sure, Grif was terrified of flying rodents himself so he knew he shouldn't make fun of that, but the guy had just implied his eating habits were disgusting. Even if that was true (and he sort of suspected it _was_, he just didn't really care enough to change them)- it left him open for ribbing in return.

"The term is _Ophidiophobic_, actually." The poor boy couldn't help but to dig himself in further.

"Nerd." He couldn't help but respond to it, either.

A glare, "Fatass."

Instead of feeling angry at the insult, Grif felt oddly okay with it. Maybe it was fun just to see if he could spark that kind of vehement reaction from the other teen. Maybe it was just nice to know there _was_ more to him than being timid and awkward all the time.

…Whatever the reason, he actually _liked_ seeing this side of the Above Grounder. The longer he could keep it out, the better: it was like a routine that felt oddly natural for two people who had only just met (and decidedly on the wrong foot, to boot).

Despite the annoyed look on his face, it seemed like the other boy didn't really mind either: there was a glint in his eyes that hadn't been there before and he wasn't going back into his shell or being overly self-conscious yet since the exchange had started.

Out of mild curiosity, and to keep things on a more peaceable level still, Grif asked, "What do you call a fear of bats?"

The annoyed look faded quickly from his expression as he thought of the answer, "_Chiroptophobia_." He regarded him curiously, "Why?"

A shrug, "No reason." He tried to sound nonchalant.

The boy regarded him for a few more minutes, and then a smirk crossed his face. It was a new expression to see on him for Grif. It would probably take awhile to get used to.

"Are you afraid of bats?" he joked.

"…" Grif said nothing, really not sure he wanted to give the kid any fuel given the suddenly way-too-joyful look in his green eyes. Dealing with Tucker's mocking on the subject was more than enough.

Unfortunately, and he really should have realized it sooner, staying silent was pretty much its own confirmation too.

"You do know there weren't any bats on the colony ships and that there are no bat-like species on this planet, right?"

"Oh, sure, try to disprove my fear with facts." Grif used air-quotes with his fingers to emphasize the word "facts," not really caring for the smug look crossing over the boy's features.

Suddenly, he thought of something to counter said smugness and couldn't help the triumphant smirk that came to his own face, "And you do know that if there _are_ snakes on this planet, you'd be more likely to find them here, right?"

His face paled considerably at the notion and Grif almost could have laughed at the fearful reaction until he suddenly shook his head adamantly, "That's—that's not true! They don't live that far underground!"

"You sure about that?" Grif tried to get one last jab in, even though he knew the boy was probably right: he certainly had never seen a snake anywhere close to The Slums or the mines.

"…Are you sure you won't find a bat down here one day?" he countered.

Damn, he had him there. Grif was somewhat impressed.

Finally, his mind settled on a topic of discussion he knew the other teen couldn't argue, "…Nerd."

_Oh, good one!_

He hated his brain sometimes.

"…Fatass."

Though judging by the embarrassed grimace crossing over the other teen's features at his less-than-eloquent retort, it seemed like he wasn't the only one who felt that way sometimes.

…Oddly enough, that sort of made Grif feel better.

"Come on," he grinned and grabbed the boy's hand, "There's someone you should meet again!"

If he'd been paying attention to the other boy's body language at all, he would have noticed him stiffening slightly at the sudden contact. Or maybe that his palm actually seemed to be sweating quite a bit against his own.

…But Grif was, when it came to certain things at least, pretty oblivious sometimes.

* * *

"…"

Kai stared blankly at the two of them from the apartment doorway, surprise evident on her features.

Tucker whistled in amusement as he'd evidently snuck over to their home in order to read a magazine, "Dude, you bring home the weirdest shit."

"Oh, shut up." Grif glared in his direction, then pushed the boy forward encouragingly, "Look who's here, Kai!"

She tilted her head to the side contemplatively, squinting at the teen who was fidgeting embarrassingly in front of her- his face a bright red and his eyes looking everywhere but at her.

It took only a moment for her to remember him, "Hey, it's the gray guy who helped me out!"

He stared at her dumbfounded for a few seconds before turning to look behind him questioningly at Grif, "Um…?"

"She's colorblind." Grif explained in a whisper. Given his red hair and maroon shirt…no wonder Kai called him "gray guy" in her head.

"That…can't be true, can it?" he could practically see the wheels turning in the nerd's head at the concept, "Statistically speaking, I mean—"

Trying to avoid some weird scientific nerd lecture before it could properly begin, Grif stepped forward and cut the boy off, "I ran into him earlier and we're cool now, Kai. So you can lay off the guilt trip, all right?"

The girl glanced from him to the Above Grounder, frowning.

"Is this true?" she asked the redhead, who squirmed uncomfortably with her attention on him again.

Grif's mouth fell open, "…You don't believe me?" he asked in mock disbelief.

"I just want to hear it from him." Kai looked at the boy imploringly.

"Because you might have just threatened the poor guy into coming down here just to get her to stop being mad at you!" Tucker joked, looking on at the exchange in amusement.

"…Are you kidding me? That would have taken way too much effort."

The boy still seemed way too shaken up under Kai's gaze, though it seemed like the few minutes dialogue between Grif and Tucker helped to give him a chance to get his bearings.

"Um…yeah, it's true." He swallowed nervously, looking down at the floor, "He apologized and everything."

"Dex apologized?" Now it was Kai's turn to look shocked.

"Dex?" the boy was staring at him curiously.

…Though Grif was more focused on his annoyance over the shocked looks on both Tucker and Kai's faces, "Oh, shut the fuck up, you two. I can apologize for shit I've done wrong!"

"'Can' and actually 'doing' are two very opposite things." His friend joked.

"…Don't you have your own home to hang out in?" Grif asked exasperatedly.

He grinned, looking pointedly in Kai's direction, "View's way better in this one."

"I swear to God, Tucker…"

"It's—it's true though!" Perhaps the Above Grounder was afraid that the argument might get even more heated, though it came as a bit of a surprise to hear his voice speak loudly enough to be heard over it, "He even tried getting me to punch him to make it even!"

Tucker snorted, "That's how you apologize for shit? Wish we got into more fights."

Sister nodded approvingly, "That sounds like my brother!"

…Grif was seriously tempted to bang his head on the wall behind him. Except it was metal and would probably hurt _a lot_.

Instead, he sighed in defeat and decided to let their joking comments slide, "…So we're cool then, Kai? You're not going to keep yelling at me?"

She made a big deal about pretending to think it over to which Grif had to try to keep an eyebrow twitch from developing in response to, before slowly nodding, "…Buy me that yellow tank top I saw earlier and we'll call it even."

"Oh, seconded!" Tucker grinned, "Bow chika bow—OW!"

At the same time that he had hit Tucker in the head with a soda can Grif said, "Nice try." to his sister.

"You suck!" But there was no vehemence in her tone and Kai was grinning right back at him.

"Seriously, don't you people ever throw anything away?" Tucker was rubbing the side of his head where the can had hit him.

The two ignored him though, Kai turning her attention back to the very lost and bewildered boy standing next to her brother, "I never did get the chance to thank you earlier, did I, gray guy?"

"Um…"

"So thanks!" she grinned, grabbing his hand and the poor guy looked likely to faint right then and there- Grif wasn't sure if he should throw a can at him as well for that or mock him for it…maybe both.

Oblivious to his reaction, Kai leaned forward playfully and looked at his red face carefully, "Come to think of it, I never got your name." she mused.

…Oh, that actually reminded Grif of something too. For some reason, it had totally slipped his mind to ask for the Above Grounder's name as well.

With visible effort, the boy managed to choke out, "Si—Simmons." before turning around and hightailing it out of the apartment.

The two boys stared after him incredulously and Kai smiled, "Aw…gray guy's shy!"

…Well, Grif supposed it was probably something of a miracle that he had even hung on as long as he had.

* * *

When dinner was finished with that evening, Tucker motioned for Grif to follow him into the hallway.

He did so, figuring that Tucker had a bad joke or something else fun he wanted to tell him but he was surprised at the decidedly serious look on the dark-skinned boy's face.

"You…haven't heard anything about fighting between those Insurrection guys and Above Ground, have you?"

Grif was taken slightly back by the question.

The Insurrection was something of a resistance group in The Slums. There were a network of resistances in the area, actually, though most of them were for more peaceful organizations of resources and just about providing security to more impoverished areas since Above Ground didn't supply any sort of aid down here. They often helped out in the events of tunnel collapses and the like too. Originally, the Insurrection had been like any other of those groups, but he'd heard some rumors of them advertising some decidedly riskier actions against Above Ground in recent months.

…He had assumed the rumors were blowing things out of proportion because of the "tough guy" personas all of the group's members seemed to have. Everyone always grumbled about taking action for better treatment for The Slums, but no one was stupid enough to actually try anything.

…Not after the Above Ground military had proven they were more than willing to use detonation charges to collapse tunnels on miners in the last uprising some twenty years ago, at least.

"The usual shit, nothing different."

Tucker's frown deepened at his response and Grif actually became a little worried, "…Have you heard something?"

"Just some stuff I really hope isn't true about weapons being shipped out into the tunnels." His friend's brown eyes looked at him pointedly, "I know you have a job and everything, but try to keep out of the mines for awhile, okay? I don't want to have to deal with Kai if something happens to your lazy ass."

Grif was genuinely touched at his friend's concern, "Thanks for the warning. I'll stick to easy jobs outside of the mining corridors for a little while then." He grinned sarcastically, "Believe me, the last thing I'd want to do is get involved in something as pointless as a war."

He snorted, "Yeah, I'm not sure you'd last more than two seconds in one."

"…Like you'd do any better?" Grif joked back.

"Probably not. Way too much effort, man."

It was times like these when Grif was reminded of what made the two of them rather good friends despite all of the ribbing.

"Oh, and I'd probably have Kai not talk about that pale kid being from Above Ground too much." Tucker advised, turning slightly serious again, "You know how people can get."

True enough: a lot of Slum residents saw Above Grounders as enemies. It was hard to think of anyone really seeing a scrawny, pale, freckle-faced, socially awkward boy as a threat, but he supposed it wouldn't do to bring attention to it.

"Do you really think it will be an issue?" he asked Tucker, "I mean, he ran out of here practically screaming. I'm not sure we'll even see him again."

Which, oddly enough, was almost halfway disappointing. He'd actually kind of had fun earlier today.

Tucker shrugged, "You never know. Best to be cautious, though."

…It was sound advice, even if it did come from a surprising source.

* * *

Simmons didn't show up again for another two days.

Truthfully, Grif was actually somewhat surprised when he found him sitting by himself at the very same bench he had tried helping Kai at earlier.

"…I thought you'd left." He thought it best to avoid mentioning that he had fled from his little sister in close to sheer panic.

…At least for right now. He would so mock him for it later if the other teen stuck around.

Simmons started at his voice, red already climbing up his face, "I…don't interact well with girls." He mumbled lamely.

Grif plopped down next to him on the bench. He was tired and this was as good an excuse as any to get off of his feet for awhile.

"I noticed." He grinned, "Lots of girls go for guys fleeing in terror from them."

…Okay, well, he wasn't going to miss a mocking opportunity when it was _that_ obvious. He was only human, after all.

Simmons flinched away from him slightly and he almost felt bad for the joking then.

"…Was she mad?"

"Kai?" Grif shook his head, "Nah, she just thinks you're shy."

He let out a small sigh of relief, shoulders sagging slightly.

"…Fourteen, dude. And my sister."

Best to nip any thoughts like that in the bud.

Simmons glanced over at him, nodding in understanding of Grif's warning. His face was no fire-hydrant red.

Grif sighed, "I would have thought you would have gone back by now. It's been a couple weeks, hasn't it? Those assholes who hurt Kai have already left, haven't they?"

The other boy nodded and Grif was somewhat relieved they weren't causing trouble around here anymore.

But it made him kind of curious about why Simmons wasn't hurrying back to the safety of topside living. He seemed nervous enough being down here as it was, so Grif just wanted to know _why_.

"…So why are you staying here?"

Having nowhere to sleep, to eat really… It seemed an odd thing for anyone to choose to do voluntarily. He knew from personal experience that he certainly never wanted to do it again.

The other boy fidgeted nervously, biting down on his lip. He remained silent for so long that Grif assumed he wasn't going to answer…which, fair enough. It wasn't like the two of them were friends or anything, so he wasn't going to force it out of him.

"Look, sorry I asked." He said after the silence had stretched on well past his liking, "You don't have to tell me, I won't get mad."

"…I have two more weeks."

Simmons had mumbled, so Grif wasn't quite sure what he had said at first.

The redhead glanced at him, saw the questioning look on Grif's tan face and took a deep breath. When he spoke up again, it was at a much more audible level.

"I have two more weeks before my enrollment begins."

Ah, so that explained things a little bit. Simmons was trying to have his last little bit of freedom before his mandatory Above Ground military training commenced.

…Grif sort of felt sorry for him.

"You've already been down here awhile and without anyone else. Won't your family miss you?"

Simmons frowned at the question and for a minute the other teen thought that maybe he had overstepped some new acquaintance rule or some shit again.

"My mom…might." He finally said, "But I left her a message and I think she understands. My dad…he won't even notice I'm gone unless I don't show up for training."

_Ouch._

There was a note of bitterness to Simmons' voice on that last part that caught Grif off-guard.

"You two don't get along?"

…And he probably should just shoot himself in the foot to keep from digging himself in even further.

Simmons laughed, a weird patronizing laugh that was more hollow than anything else, "He'd have to notice I existed before we could not get along."

Father issues by the transport-load, it seemed. Grif wasn't sure it would be a good idea to pry any further on that subject given the dark look crossing over Simmons' green eyes.

"So you're just going to slum around here for the next two weeks?"

Simmons' head snapped quickly in Grif's direction, his mouth open in protest.

Grif had forgotten that the term "slumming" for Above Grounders had a negative connotation, usually meaning stuff like what those assholes had done to Kai. Simmons apparently was well aware of it too.

"Sorry, didn't mean it that way." Grif held out his hand in a peaceable gesture, "I just meant that you're going to wander down here on your own until then."

He relaxed then, giving a curt nod.

Grif sighed, not really liking the direction his brain was going in.

But a kid without much social skills to speak of and nowhere to sleep, an Above Grounder no less in a place where they weren't really welcome, and Tucker's warning to boot…

And he knew that, even if they were somewhat even now for his punching him earlier, Simmons had risked getting his own ass kicked by helping Kai out like he had.

They weren't even for that yet, not by a long shot.

"I have a proposition for you."

* * *

The arrangement was pretty simple, and if Grif was being honest with himself, it was a mutually beneficial one.

For the next two weeks, Simmons would help Grif out on his errands around The Slums- in exchange for food and a place to sleep.

…This in turn meant Grif actually could get a lot of his work done faster, which meant he could devote a lot more of his time to slacking off. Plus, he didn't have to worry about Simmons getting dragged off by Insurrection thugs for doing something stupid and "Above Ground"-y (yeah, he really didn't care if that wasn't a real term)…which meant he could consider a lot of his debt to him in regards to Kai paid off as well.

So, all in all: a total win-win.

It wasn't exactly a foolproof plan, though: Simmons may have been something of an overachieving genius nerd hacker in order to sneak into The Slums on his own, but he had pretty much zilch in the way of the common sense know-how needed to actually work and function down here. It made Grif wonder how he'd managed to keep himself alive those first days.

But, if there was one thing about the above description that was especially in the redhead's favor, it was the "overachieving" part. The boy seemed bent to please and he was persistent. Maybe, since he knew Grif was doing him a pretty big favor in his own way, he wanted to prove he could actually do it.

After fumbling through the first few transactions of the day, he was steadily improving at a much quicker pace than Grif had anticipated.

…It was almost wearing him out, just watching Simmons.

"Do you ever relax?" he asked him as they were finishing up the last job of the day: delivering food to the construction workers in Level One from a restaurant in Level Five. Good pay since it was a lot of food, though having a second person made the haul easier and as a bonus- free food to boot afterwards. He fucking loved delivery runs for restaurants when he could arrange to get them.

Simmons looked over at him in surprise, "But…it's your job, right?"

Grif shrugged nonchalantly in response.

"A job you're given is one you ought to do well."

Now it was Grif's turn to look at him as if he were an alien, "Where did you pick that up from?"

His face lit up in indignation, "It's called having a good work ethic!"

Well, it's not like Grif could really argue with that. When push came to shove (and there was no plausible way he could come up with to avoid it), he would work insanely hard. It wasn't like Grif hadn't been doing so up until now.

"But this is different for you." He argued, "It's my job, but you're just…an assistant helper."

"…And I shouldn't try to be good at that?" The incredulous look on his freckled face was too hilarious.

"Well, you can if you want." Grif scratched his head in thought, "I just thought if you were coming down here to get away from pressure in your everyday life you might want to relax and have fun while you have the time for it."

Simmons seemed to ponder what he said for a few seconds and then sort of freaked Grif out by beaming proudly, "Oh, you don't have to worry about that. I'm having tons of fun!"

The blank look on the other teen's face caused him to elaborate further, "I mean…I find a job well done to be very fun! It's like a well-organized chore wheel!"

"…" Grif just stared at him.

Simmons' face took on the usual tomato hue Grif had become accustomed to seeing on it whenever he was embarrassed, "G—Grif?" he asked hesitantly.

"…You really are weird, you know that?"

Embarrassment turned to indignation at the joking tone, "I am not! What's weird is not having any kind of set schedule or order when your primary business is always changing."

"Psh…I get it done, don't I?"

"That's beside the point! Your functionality could probably increase by sixty percent at least if you…"

Simmons' voice trailed off into a well-intentioned rant full of big words that Grif, for the most part, chose to ignore and then reply sarcastically to.

They carried on like that for the rest of the way back to Low Town. Oddly enough, despite the argumentative and disinterested tones of their voices, both boys were grinning from ear-to-ear throughout the exchange.

* * *

"So shy guy is going to be staying with us for two weeks?" Kai asked from the small table they'd just eaten at.

Simmons, having volunteered to clean the dishes (though he subsequently regretted it apparently after seeing the messing filling their sink), sighed, "…I kind of wish she'd go back to calling me 'gray guy' instead." He muttered in a tone so low that Grif only heard it because he was sitting right behind him.

He couldn't help but grin. Yeah, he supposed it was embarrassing to be reminded of the time someone ran away in terror from a fourteen-year-old.

"Yeah, just until he has to go back home." He narrowed his brown eyes at the girl, "So no funny business, Kai. I mean it."

"Aw, you're no fun!" the girl smirked and called over to Simmons' back, "Hey, wanna sleep in my room?"

…And Grif was pretty sure he heard a plate break as Simmons sputtered incoherently for two whole minutes.

There were only two rooms in the apartment if you didn't count the bathroom, which sometimes Grif didn't since as long as he didn't smell that bad and he didn't have to take a leak, he kind of forgot it was there. There was the living space area which also housed their cramped-as-fuck kitchen space, and a tiny bedroom off to the side.

Grif had basically let Kai have free reign of the bedroom since he figured she would appreciate the privacy…and, truthfully, if he was tired he just crashed on the couch anyways so what did he need the extra room for? Going two unnecessary meters or so to sleep? Fuck that.

He sighed, honestly not sure if she was joking or serious, "Not happening, Kai. He's sleeping out here with me."

She pouted, "You suck!"

"Yeah, yeah. Like you actually thought I'd let that happen."

Kai gave a suggestive wink in the still shell-shocked Simmons' direction, "Too bad, I would've been _real_ gentle."

"Wh—what?"

Poor kid's head looked like it was about to explode. Grif felt a small measure of pity for him: Kai was a handful even for someone used to her. A shy nerd like Simmons was way out of his depth.

"Quit that and go to bed." He sighed, the comment more of a suggestion for Simmons' sake than a real command with any kind of force to it. He wasn't really going to yell at her if she ignored him since he suspected a lot of this was more play than anything else.

Kai grinned and stuck her tongue at him again, then raced to her own little sanctuary. The second the door whizzed shut, loud music only slightly muffled could be heard coming from behind it.

"Um…" Simmons seemed unsure of what to say.

"Sorry about that. Kai likes to joke around a lot."

Well, Grif liked to think she was just joking for his own peace of mind. Sometimes with her it was hard to tell.

"Oh! Uh, that's fine." Simmons' face was still beet-red though and Grif was unsure of whether or not he should feel more annoyed by his reaction. He supposed at least "getting too flustered to talk" was a better reaction to Kai's antics than Tucker's tendency to "play-flirt back" was, so he decided to let it slide and moved into his own sleeping area.

The couch faced the less-than-stellar computer terminal of the apartment, which was large enough that its screen made up about half of the back wall. The information networks weren't the greatest in The Slums, but Grif mostly used it to watch old archival footage of things called "movies" or "TV" from the old days on Earth when he was feeling really bored and lazy, so he didn't mind (_Man, did those guys seem to have it made then!_). It was a big, ugly thing that had taken him and Tucker almost an entire day to drag into the apartment from the dump on the other side of Low Town, but once they'd gotten the smell out and everything it was comfy as fuck to sleep on so he thought all-in-all the effort had been worth it.

Underneath the couch were some cleaner blankets, which he pulled out before moving the empty bags of snacks and drink bottles from his sleeping spot to the floor and pulling the blankets that he'd been using from there as well. Maybe Tucker had a point and they should clean every once in a while, but it wasn't his fault he got sleepy after he ate, damn it!

"You can have the couch while you're here."

…Grif figured Simmons would have probably wanted that spot but wouldn't feel right asking for it since he was a guest, so he might as well just preemptively offer it instead.

Besides, Grif really didn't mind sleeping on the floor: he did it a couple of times a week anyways if he really wasn't feeling like wasting the energy to get up from the ground and pull himself onto the couch.

…He was pretty adept at being able to sleep anywhere, honestly. It was one of the few skills he prided himself on.

"Thanks."

Giving up on the mess of dirty plates and utensils piled up in the kitchen for now (though Grif noticed, somewhat surprised, that the boy had managed to make a sizable dent in them somehow), Simmons went about trying to "make" a bed on the couch- casting disapproving glances at the trash on the floor but, with great effort, not commenting on it.

Silently, the two settled in for the night. Grif was, not unsurprisingly for him, pretty beat so he figured that he'd have no trouble falling to sleep, even with the sound of Kai's music permeating the place.

Simmons, it seemed, wasn't quite as ready to hit the hay yet. His eyes were flicking in every direction, and he kept opening his mouth to say something but then seemed to decide against it.

Eventually, though, his curiosity seemed to get the better of him.

"Hey, Grif?"

The other boy sighed, opening his eyes to look at the ceiling.

"Simmons, you don't need to whisper. It's hard to hear you over that music Kai's playing."

"R—right, sorry." His voice was slightly louder that time, so Grif didn't have to strain his ears to hear him.

After a few minutes of deliberation, Simmons spoke up again.

"…Are the two of you living by yourselves?"

It was a pretty personal question and, judging by the hesitancy in his voice, it seemed like Simmons had been debating about whether or not he had wanted to ask: probably afraid he would step over some boundary, just like Grif had been when he'd asked about Simmons' family.

…But, it wasn't like it was a huge secret or anything: pretty much everyone who had a passing acquaintance with the two siblings in The Slums knew they were on their own. Grif really didn't care who knew one way or the other, so long as they weren't judgmental assholes about it.

"Yeah." Grif didn't hesitate to answer, brown eyes still focused on the ceiling and occasionally on Simmons' pale elbow when he fidgeted on the couch above him, "It's been the two of us for awhile now."

"Oh." was all Simmons said to that, though if there was one thing Grif had learned about the other teenager was that he probably had a few backup questions he just wasn't comfortable asking just yet.

So Grif decided to elaborate a bit more to help give the Above Grounder some peace of mind, "My parents both left some years ago. More important things to do or some shit, I guess."

"That's…" Simmons seemed to be racking his brain for the right word, "Awful. I'm sorry."

Maybe he thought he'd touched upon a bad topic, like how Grif had when he'd asked about his father.

The other boy shrugged, though he knew Simmons couldn't see the gesture, "It's okay. I mean, it fucking sucked when it happened, but I'm cool with it now."

…Probably better the two of them had left if that was their disposition in the first place. Grif wasn't sure when he had first started telling himself that or when it was that he'd partially started to believe it at least.

There was silence for a long while after that and he began to wonder if maybe the tall boy's curiosity had been sated.

"…So you aren't angry anymore?"

…Should have guessed it wouldn't be.

Grif thought about that for awhile. Yeah, he supposed he was still pretty mad. Who wouldn't be? But a lot of that was far removed from his life now. It was a waste of effort to stay mad at people who had abandoned them long ago and Grif was not someone who liked to waste energy or effort on, well, most things if he was honest.

"Not like I used to be." He finally responded, frowning, "Though I would like to fucking punch both of them for all of the times Kai cried after they left."

To his surprise, Simmons actually _chuckled_ at that.

"So you've been watching out for her all on your own this whole time?"

He yawned, "Someone had to. She was way too young to deal with that shit."

"…Sounds like you were too, though." Simmons' voice was nearly a whisper then, his tone speculative.

Grif frowned, knowing the truth in that statement and not really being able to counter it. In reality, he really shouldn't have had to deal with a lot of the things he'd gone through after they were abandoned. No kid should.

"Better me than her though, since she was younger." He finally said, "Besides, it's gotten better now so it might have been for the best."

"You're a strong person, you know that?"

He smirked, "Says the guy who hacked his way down here all on his own."

Simmons peered down at him, frowning, "I'm serious. I don't think…I don't think I probably could have raised someone all on my own."

He yawned, "Sure you could. So long as they were a boy and you could talk to them."

The couch cushion hit the floor next to his head and he grinned, "Need to work on your aim, dude."

"Oh, shut up." He was grinning back.

The serious moment was over and done with and Grif was somewhat glad. Maybe now he could _finally_ get some sleep.

"Hey, Grif?" Simmons' voice came to his ears again, "While it really is impressive that you've done what you've done on your own and everything, there's probably a few things you could do to help things around here run more efficiently…"

Grif cut him off before he could finish, not even bothering to open his eyes, "Simmons, if the next words out of your mouth are someone along the lines of 'chore' or 'wheel'…I will throw that cushion right back at you."

The silence following that was pretty damning and Grif contemplated doing it anyways, but he really didn't want to waste the effort.

Eh, maybe there would be some way to make fun of him tomorrow for it. He grinned at the thought, finally drifting off to sleep.

* * *

Simmons, as it turned out, fit surprisingly comfortably into the routine in the Grif household once he stopped fretting over the chaotic mess of it all. Well, he still did fret over it, he just internalized it a lot more: it was starting to not surprise Grif that there were spots where he could actually see the floor or counter when he woke up in the apartment.

The two had fallen into a routine of sorts: they bickered a lot, but one the whole it was an amicable sort of bickering and it was odd how well-balanced they were when it came to getting things done.

Work was definitely getting finished a lot sooner, which meant more free time for Grif so he really couldn't complain at all.

Maybe he should take advantage of the opportunity this afforded him and head to his favorite napping spot of all time overlooking Level One. He hadn't been there in _forever_, so it was certainly tempting.

…Plus, it might be a spot Simmons would like to see before he had to leave. Or he could be deathly afraid of heights and be completely traumatized- which Grif could then mock him for.

So, all in all, that was a win-win in his book too.

He was about to suggest the idea to the red-haired boy when Simmons came back from their final job for the day, frowning as he handed Grif his credit chip. He seemed to be debating whether or not he wanted to tell Grif something.

"Grif, have you heard about the Insurrection Movement?" he beat the tan boy to the punch when Grif was about to ask him what was wrong.

The question threw Grif off-guard, having managed to avoid hearing anything more about them since his last conversation with Tucker.

"…They're one of the more militant resistance groups in The Slums, but everyone knows that about them." He frowned, looking the pale boy over quickly, "Why?"

The other teen was trying to school his expression into a stoic one, but failing miserably. There was a nervous glint in his green eyes.

"It's nothing." He cast a glance over his shoulder at the building he had just emerged from, "Maybe…you shouldn't do business there for awhile."

The suggestion made no sense to Grif, who looked over at the store in question. It was a supply store, mostly dealing with parts for transports and mining supplies. They'd had Grif bring them machine components from some of the dumps in the lower levels to refurbish and resell for months now.

But there was definitely something strange about how Simmons was acting and the fact that he'd brought up a very specific group that Grif hadn't even known the Above Grounder had been aware of beforehand…

"Are you saying they might somehow be involved with those assholes?"

The even more worried look in the other boy's eyes pretty much confirmed it, "Don't say that too loudly!" he muttered in a low hiss of a warning.

Grif's mind was whirring now: how had Simmons noticed something like that in the first place? He'd been doing business with them for a while now and he'd never noticed…

Just then, the door slid open to the shop and two people stepped out.

"Thanks for the business."

One of them was a blond woman with a bored expression plastered on her face and sharp-looking eyes. She'd been the one who had called out over her shoulder to the shop owner. The other was a man with his face concealed by a helmet, though the two metallic cybernetic arms he sported more than made him stand out in a crowd.

They walked past the two teens silently, the woman casting a smirk in their direction upon seeing the dumbfounded look on Grif's face and the nervous one on Simmons'.

"Thank you both as well." She said in an almost joking manner, mock-waving as her and her companion disappeared from sight down into an alleyway.

…Both of them had been wearing the red combat vests that signified they were members of the Insurrection. He'd only seen them from afar before, but the sight had always been more than enough motivation to change routes even before their rumored activities had started to intensify.

Picking a fight with Above Ground was stupid, trying to start a war with them downright suicidal and would probably just make things worse for everyone in the long run. There was no way Grif was going to get dragged into their bullshit.

There was an odd pressure on his forearm, and he looked down- surprised to see Simmons' hand was gripped around it tightly. He looked insanely anxious, not that Grif could probably blame him for it.

"…They were in the store when you dropped the stuff off." It wasn't a question so much as a statement of the obvious.

No wonder Simmons had been so freaked coming out of there.

Damn, if he hadn't been dragging his ass like usual he would have at least been in there too. Not that it would have made a fucking difference, but he felt somewhat guilty that the other boy had been there on his own trying to help him out.

"They didn't seem to…know?" he asked instead, trying to change the subject slightly to avoid annoying and pointless feelings of guilt, "About you?"

Tucker's warning about keeping where Simmons came from a secret made a whole shitload of sense now.

Simmons seemed to become more and more collected as the moments passed and the two Insurrection members remained out of sight. He raised a red eyebrow at the question.

"…I don't think so. One teenager here probably looks the same as any other. It's not like I'm wearing a sign or something."

He must be feeling more at ease if he was trying to be sarcastic back. Grif relaxed somewhat at the thought and realized Simmons was probably right: one could potentially look at Simmons and automatically typecast him as a "nerd" or "shy" based on his mannerisms, but it would be trickier to figure out he was from Above Ground at just a glance.

But just as that troubling thought left his head, another quickly took its place. The Insurrection soldiers being here in the first place, Simmons' advice to not do business there for awhile, the blonde's comments…

"They're getting supplies from here, aren't they?" his voice barely registered in his own ears, it sounded so flat.

He didn't need the slight, reluctant nod from Simmons to confirm it. He already knew that was what was happening even as he had said it.

Damn, how long had they been going to that shop then? All this time and he'd never known until now?

And a nagging question was tickling his brain too along with those thoughts.

…Had the machinery and gears he'd been getting for the store been given to the Insurrection too then? It seemed very likely they would be, all things considered.

Which meant he'd been indirectly supplying parts for their stupid war even as he tried to avoid the whole fucking thing. Which meant if something happened to everyone here because of their actions, he'd share some of the blame too…

Grif wasn't thinking when he took a step towards the shop. All he really wanted to do was confront the owner and rage at him for getting him involved in this bullshit in the first place.

"Grif, don't!"

Simmons' voice was high-pitched with anxiety still, but there was a surprising authoritative tone that caused The Slums-dweller to stop.

He hadn't even noticed that Simmons' hand was still clenched around his forearm, or that the pale fingers had started squeezing down once he began to move in the shop's direction.

"…Don't make the situation worse." The other boy was saying, "Especially not when people like that are involved."

"But…"

His protest was cut off when Kai's voice shouted from behind them.

"Dex! Shy guy! What are you doing here?"

They turned to see the fourteen-year-old adamantly waving them over from some ways down the street, though with her loud greeting it had sounded like she was much closer to them.

A few people walking by shot the girl annoyed glares, but she seemed oblivious to how disruptive she'd been to the general public. Which was Kaikaina Grif in a nutshell, really.

Thoughts of cursing out jerk-ass shop owners fell from Grif's mind at the presence of his little sister and Simmons' death-grip on his arm relaxed somewhat.

The redhead sighed, grateful for the interruption, though he cast wary glances at the store and the alleyway the two Insurrectionists had disappeared down as they made their way to join up with Kai.

* * *

"Look what I can do!" Kai bent her entire body backwards before flipping over into a standing position again using only her hands, "Isn't being double-jointed awesome?"

"Um…" Simmons seemed at a loss as to how to even comment to that, focusing his eyes anywhere else but at Kai.

Her brother sighed, "Kai, how many times have I told you not to do in public?" his tone became decidedly harsher and he glared pointedly at her outfit, "…Especially when you're wearing a skirt."

They were sitting in a park area in the middle of the level where the shop Grif was no longer going to do business for was located. Kai had insisted on going there because there was a statue she really liked and she wanted to show it to Simmons since they all happened to be in the area at once.

It was one of the few public places in The Slums that had "art" in it. The sculpture wasn't exactly Grif's cup of tea: a metal artist had used a run-down vehicle and attempted to make an old Earth animal called a Warthog from it, but Grif honestly thought the shape of the sculpture animal's body and limbs looked more like a cat's or something, so he always called it a Puma in his head). But, he supposed it was sort of nice that places like this existed here at all.

Kai glared at him, hands on her hips, "You're no fun, Dex! Steve says it's awesome when I bend my leg over my head whenever I meet him here."

"Yeah, yeah…" and then what she just said suddenly registered in his mind, "Wait, what? Who the fuck is Steve?"

But Kai didn't think it was an important question to answer, laughing instead and darting off to the other side of the park with Grif calling questions after her.

The boy sighed again, suddenly feeling exhausted. If he was remembering correctly, Steve was a friend of Kai's from Low Town who he would have to have some words with now, it seemed like.

If Kai was already this much of a handful, he was really starting to worry about what she would be like a couple more years down the road. He shuddered at the thought.

Simmons coughed next to him, still rather relieved in a way to see Grif getting frustrated by his little sister's antics more than what had happened before at the store. It seemed like that issue had completely slipped his mind at the moment in the face of Kai being, well, _Kai_.

"She's…lively, huh?" he joked awkwardly.

Grif snorted, a mix between annoyance and exasperation clouding his features, "She's something, all right."

"And…that flip was pretty impressive." Simmons' face turned beet red at the comment and he quickly came up with a way to avoid what he'd just said being misinterpreted by her overprotective big brother, "I—I mean…that kind of flexibility would definitely come in handy during military drills."

"I'm sure." Grif closed his eyes for a moment, the urge to nap very overwhelming in a peaceful place like this…especially with the day they'd just had. Oh, who was he kidding? Grif always wanted to nap here regardless.

There were a few minutes of blissful silence that followed.

"Can—can you do that?" Simmons' voice was rushed and hesitant, as if he'd been debating asking the question at all, "Are you…double-jointed too, I—I mean?"

Grif opened one eyelid partially, frowning in thought at the question. If he'd turned his head to the side to look at Simmons, he would have seen a very red-faced boy squirming uncomfortably and looking about ready to die of embarrassment for having even brought up the issue in the first place, but he didn't, so he never saw or questioned the peculiar reaction Simmons had to his own query.

…He probably wouldn't have even known _why_ Simmons was asking in the first place, truthfully.

"I don't really know." He answered finally, "Never had much reason to bend my leg over my head."

"…I guess not." Simmons laughed awkwardly, his body language relaxing somewhat once he realized he wasn't going to be made fun of or looked at strangely for the question.

"Though if there were a back-flipping contest with an all-you-can-eat prize, I'd probably be pretty motivated to try." The other boy joked.

Simmons grinned back at him. Food definitely seemed to be a mighty prime motivator in Grif's mind.

Deciding it was best to change the subject completely though, Simmons came up with another topic he'd been curious about, "…Kai always calls you Dex."

A yawn, "Hmm? Oh, yeah, that's because it's my name."

"…Your name is Dex?" he was curious as to why no one else called him that.

He nodded, "It's short for Dexter." He frowned suddenly, turning to Simmons, "But I really can't stand my name, so I go by Grif. Kai's the only one who calls me by it."

Simmons nodded his head in understanding.

Grif eyed the other boy critically, "Speaking of that…what's yours?"

"Huh?" Simmons blinked, not quite getting the question.

Grif snorted, "Come on, dude, what's your name? It can't really be Simmons."

The eighteen-year-old's face became an embarrassed shade of red again, "N—no, you're right…it isn't. That's just my last name."

"And I told you my name, so come on. Fair is fair." The tan boy chided.

Simmons sighed and looked down at the ground, mumbling something incoherently as he did so.

"What was that?" Grif leaned in closer, teasing, "Couldn't hear you."

"…Dick." Simmons' voice was still low, though he glanced over at Grif to gauge his reaction, "My name's Dick."

He blinked, taken by surprise, "…Seriously?"

He almost felt bad for the poor kid. His parents must have _hated_ him.

"I—it's short for Richard." He tried explaining, his face still very much red, "But that's my father's name, so Mom calls me Dick for short."

Even as he had to fight back a bark of laughter at the joke Simmons had unwittingly said, he felt a twinge of sympathy for Simmons. Yeah, he wasn't a big fan of his first name either, but he could imagine being called "Dick" was probably prime bullying material for local assholes. Another reason, perhaps, why Simmons seemed so socially awkward all the time.

"That sucks, man, sorry."

Simmons stared at him blankly, apparently in shock that Grif hadn't chosen to use his newfound knowledge to tease him and all but confirming Grif's suspicions of him being bullied because of it in the past, really.

He grinned conspiratorially, "Tell you what. I'll just call you Simmons and you call me Grif and we'll pretend neither of us know our embarrassing first names."

Simmons returned the smile sheepishly, a grateful look in his eyes, "Deal!"

* * *

"…You coming or what?" Grif looked down from his hold on the ladder to the ground several meters below him, where a very hesitant-looking Simmons stood staring up at him nervously.

The tall boy bit his lip and looked at the ladder suspiciously, "Maybe…this isn't a good idea." He said lamely.

The other teen scoffed, "If you're worried about the ladder, don't be. This is one of the most solid structures in The Slums so there's no way it will break."

He glanced up at the rafters towering high above them, "…How else do you think maintenance workers get up there? If they didn't have a secure way up, they couldn't repair weak spots and eventually we'd all be crushed to death in a massive cave-in."

He normally didn't like dwelling on how the only thing keeping the cavern above their heads from collapsing were the large support beams and towers, and the rafters and walkways that splintered out between them like spider webs. He kind of figured structural integrity points were the best way to convince Simmons that it was safe to be up there and he really wanted to share the view with him.

It was one of Grif's favorite spots to be, after all, and he figured it would be an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for his Above Ground friend to see it. They'd been so busy up until now the past two weeks that he'd nearly missed a chance to take time out for this.

He frowned, "It's the ladder being secure I'm worried about, Grif…that's a long way down to fall!"

"Oh." Grif looked up at how seemingly endless the ladder appeared heading upwards from his vantage point. He supposed he'd always been somewhat aware of how fatal a fall from it could be, but for some reason it had never crossed his mind in a panic-inducing way before.

"…Want to go up first so that if you fall I can try catching you?" he asked Simmons, completely serious and without any hint of teasing in his voice.

The pale boy's face reddened at that suggestion for some reason and he gestured wildly with his hands, "N—no, of course not! That's not the issue here, Grif!"

…Okay, Grif wasn't really sure why his question would get that flustered of a response to it, but whatever. He'd been hanging around Simmons long enough now to know how odd he could be with social interactions.

He frowned, heading down the ladder again, "Well, I guess we don't really have to if you don't want to." He said reluctantly.

"R—really?" Simmons looked at him with a mixture of relief and dubiousness.

If Grif hadn't been holding onto the ladder, his shrug would have probably been more visible, "Yeah. I mean, I wanted to show you something bitching awesome before left, but if you would rather do something else…"

The teen below him seemed to be inwardly deliberating something as Grif spoke and he sighed.

Grif stopped his descent when Simmons gripped onto the ladder below so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Let's…just get this over with before I change my fucking mind." There was hesitancy in his green eyes, but a determined look in their depths too.

Grif grinned.

…Despite Simmons' concerns, the climb up the ladder was pretty uneventful, even with them having to take a few breaks so that Simmons could recollect himself and keep from panicking at what they were doing. Grif was actually pretty impressed with him for sticking with it, considering how scared he obviously was.

It took about thirty minutes for them to reach the rafter above, Grif getting up on the black metal walkway first.

He turned around to see Simmons' hand on the walkway behind him only to have a panic attack of his very own when the other teenager, hands sweaty from nerves and the death-grip he'd had on the ladder, slipped.

Grif dived down onto his stomach on the walkway, reaching out his hand and somehow managing to just _barely_ grab onto one of Simmons'.

He grunted with the effort as Simmons was able to regain his footing on the metal rungs of the ladder, helping to pull the Above Grounder up to the relative safety of the walkway as Simmons used his free hand to help steady himself on the walkway's floor.

"Err…" Grif was honestly not sure how to respond to what just happened, his own hand now just as sweaty as Simmons' and his heart going a mile a minute.

Simmons was in a crouched position on the floor with Grif kneeling over him worriedly. His eyes were locked onto Grif's hand clasped over his, not saying anything.

…Grif supposed that if Simmons wanted to scream and yell at him for nearly getting him killed over a dumb idea he had, he'd very much be in the right for it.

"I'm sorry…" he began, getting ready for the blow-out he was positive was about to come his way, "If you want…"

"I am not punching you so you can forget it, dumbass." Simmons' reply was curt and harsh as he turned his gaze from Grif's hand to glare up at him, causing the other boy to immediately shut up, "It was my decision to come up here after all so don't fucking apologize."

"But—"

Simmons smiled slightly, looking down again at their hands, "Besides, you saved my life so I think that makes us even. Thanks."

Grif was about to argue the opposite, but knew it was probably pointless given how strangely stubborn Simmons could get on these matters.

Instead, he reluctantly let go of Simmons' hand, irrationally fearful that the other teen might still trip and fall without his grip there, despite the high safety railings and wire that surrounded the walkways proper. He figured it probably had something to do with residual guilt over Simmons nearly falling in the first place.

Taking a deep breath, Simmons stood on shaky legs and moved past Grif, gazing first at the rock ceiling literally only three or so meters above their heads and then over the side of the walkway they were standing on.

The empty air of the cavern greeted his sight initially, though, far below, one could make out the shapes of the numerous buildings and structures that comprised Level One- even some indistinct, faraway blobs of people. The tallest buildings below only seemed to be a third of the height of the top of the cavern.

"…Whoa." Anything remotely intelligible that the boy had been prepared to say was lost, his eyes wide as he took in the panoramic view before him.

Grif beamed, feeling rather smug with Simmons' reaction, "…Told you it was worth it."

Simmons nodded in response, completely transfixed. He could even make out some of the transport vehicles resembling little blocks from this height and angle and elevators moving about below.

Grif joined him in staring down at Level One, "This is one of my favorite places here."

"…I can see why." Simmons cast a glance at him finally, raising an eyebrow, "Though I'm sort of surprised considering how much effort it takes to get up here."

He shrugged, "It's a hassle, yeah, but when I first discovered this place I didn't mind."

The tan boy sat down on the walkway, looking out at the empty space all around them with a nostalgic glint in his eyes, "It was when I was little and our mom had just left. I needed…some place where I could just be by myself for awhile."

A scared little kid trying desperately to run away from his problems… Maybe that was why, up until just a few minutes ago when Simmons had nearly fallen, he hadn't even thought about how dangerous climbing the ladder could potentially be.

…Looking back on it now, he'd been pretty dumb then and probably extremely lucky, he'd wager.

Simmons sat down next to him, saying nothing. Maybe he understood in a way, given the lengths he had gone just to get a few days of freedom from his life.

"…How's the view compared to the ones in Above Ground?"

Grif wasn't sure why he asked that. Maybe he was just curious or maybe he was tired of the silence and dwelling on uncomfortable shit.

Simmons was staring at him, the expression on his face oddly unreadable for him. He seemed to be getting better at masking his emotions at times.

"It's better than most." He finally said, though he wasn't staring over the walkway anymore, "Though I didn't really pay much attention to views there."

"…Afraid to get near the windows on those skyscraper things?" Grif joked.

He smiled slightly, "A little." Simmons admitted, "But I'm glad you showed me this one, at least."

The other boy laughed, "Even if it almost got you killed?"

"Even if." Simmons looked down, embarrassed, "I've never…really known anyone who wanted to share something personal with me before."

"…Their loss, then." Grif looked thoughtful, "Though I wouldn't call this place 'personal' necessarily. I just thought someone not from the area should see it."

Simmons probably knew full well that he was trying to cover up showing a vulnerable side he hadn't probably intended to show earlier, but he kindly chose to say nothing about it. He nodded in agreement with what Grif had just said instead, "Makes sense."

Grif looked oddly contemplative for a moment, "Though I suppose it _does_ make you think about things."

"Like what?" they were falling into their usual routine again now that the immediate "wow" factor was over with.

"Like…" Grif frowned in thought for a moment before coming up with a topic, "Do you ever wonder why we're here?"

Simmons shot him an incredulous look at that, "…Seriously?"

Grif grinned at the disbelief in his friend's voice, "Yeah, deep philosophical soul-wrenching questions like that. Oh, and it is a fucking awesome spot to nap in!"

He shook his head in exasperation, "You _nap_ up here?"

"I nap everywhere." He puffed out his chest with pride, "You should try it. It's awesome."

"…I'll take your word on it." Simmons smiled slightly and Grif laid back down on the floor of the walkway, closing his eyes and determined to prove his point right then and there. It was a matter of pride now. Plus, climbing the ladder had been fairly exhausting.

"Hey, Grif?"

…Simmons had a knack for being the ultimate kill-joy when it came to his napping ambitions, however.

"Huh?"

He cracked an eye open, surprised to see Simmons looking off to the side and lost in thought.

Finally, the redhead took in a deep breath and spoke up once more, "I just…want to say thanks for the last two weeks. I had a lot of fun."

Grif raised an eyebrow at that, "Helping me with work and putting up with my crazy sister and our less-than-stellar tidiness?" he asked incredulously, "You and I have very different definitions of fun, dude."

Simmons blushed in embarrassment, "I…I mean it, though. It was a lot different from how things are at home."

Grif regarded him carefully, "Do you…like living there?"

He wasn't sure if the question was too personal or not, but he figured _what the hell?_ and asked it anyways. If Simmons really didn't want to answer him, he wouldn't.

Simmons frowned, "I…both like it and I don't." he stared at Grif carefully, "What about you? Do you hate it here?"

He yawned, "Well, it's a shithole and everything, but I can't say I hate everything about this place."

After all, Kai was here too and he had some good friends and a semi-decent life for what it was worth. He supposed things could always be a lot worse than what they were.

Regarding Simmons though, for the first time he really wondered what life was like in Above Ground. Were people really that much better off? Simmons didn't seem as different from him as he would have thought someone from the "elite" tier would be.

"…You'd like some of the views there at least, Grif." Simmons gave a weak smile, "Prime napping spots."

"Cool. You better nap in them for me like a champ." He grinned, "Though you probably won't have too much time for that right away, huh?"

Simmons' face fell at the comment and Grif could have kicked himself for reminding the other teen about what he had come down here to get away from.

Before he could apologize though, Simmons smiled again in a decidedly self-deprecating fashion, "Probably not, unfortunately. Military training frowns on naps."

"…Bet they're not too fond of chore wheels, either." He joked, trying to lighten the mood.

"At least there's organization and structure there!" Simmons countered right back at him, a triumphant smirk on his face.

"But they ration food and that's just sad." Grif had to get in the last word somehow.

Simmons shook his head in exasperation before suddenly turning serious again so quickly that he caught the other boy off-guard with the change, "I'm…going to be in the military and I'm going to do my best to be a damn good officer. My father's one and, for all of his faults, I think…I think there's a certain sense of pride and nobility in that profession."

Grif was surprised since this was the first time Simmons had really talked about his feelings on the subject at all. He'd always just assumed that the reason Simmons was distracting himself in The Slums was because he _wasn't_ looking forward to military training. It was odd to think that his viewpoints on it were so fundamentally different in reality.

His newfound friend (and yes, he felt he could almost start thinking of Simmons that way after how well they'd been getting along together) looked at him with an odd expression on his face, like he was saying something he really didn't want to say but knew he should, "So…I don't think I'll ever do something like this again and I really hope I never see you again either, Grif."

His meaning wasn't lost on Grif: if Simmons truly meant to be a soldier in the Above Ground military the only reason he'd ever come to The Slums again would be if there was enough of a disturbance that The Council felt military operations were called for.

…And that usually ended badly for Slum-dwellers.

"Well, yeah, in that case I'd rather not see you again either." Grif admitted, though he was surprised at how _strange_ it sounded to say that.

It was odd, in only about two weeks or so, he felt a strong bond with the Above Grounder he joked around with about being a nerd and anal when it came to his views on things like work and chores. It felt weird to think about how impermanent a connection that had been in the grand scheme of things, even after he'd gone into the situation knowing full-well about it beforehand.

Simmons sighed, deflating somewhat and looking as if someone had just punched him in the gut. Grif imagined saying all of that hadn't been easy for him, either.

"So…thanks for everything then." He finally said after collection himself once more, "I really mean it."

Grrif smirked, wanting to desperately lessen the suddenly very heavy mood still lingering between them, "You're welcome, nerd."

Simmons smirked back, "Oh, just shut up and enjoy your nap, fatass."

And then Simmons surprised Grif by sliding down onto the walkway floor next to him and closing his eyes.

Grif almost commented on it, but decided not to. He knew it was close to the deadline Simmons had set for himself to return to Above Ground, which was one of the main reasons why he'd wanted to show him this spot today in the first place. He figured that maybe Simmons just wanted to do something even more out of character for himself because of that.

So he did what he did best in these types of situations: closing his eyes as well in an effort to truly prove was more than capable of dozing off anywhere.

* * *

…When Grif awoke a few hours later, the lighting panels in the cavern were starting to dim to signify dusk- which meant he would have to be even more careful getting down the ladder.

Given the weird direction their conversation had gone earlier, Grif really wasn't all that shocked to see that he was alone on the walkway either.

He frowned, glancing down over the railing at the crowded Slums below.

Simmons had probably felt it was easier to part ways like this given the directions their two lives were going in, and he supposed he was probably right, in a way. After all, Grif wasn't exactly sure how to deal with goodbyes anyways: most of his relationships he'd had that had ended didn't really have any kind of closure to speak of- like the ones with his parents.

…Besides, they really hadn't known each other for very long and he doubted most people would have even considered the two of them real "friends" by any stretch of the imagination.

It was just a bizarre, if oddly memorable, chapter in his life that happened to close with very little fanfare. Life goes on and all that shit.

Still, as he made his way carefully down the ladder and headed back towards Low Town to check on Kai and maybe talk to Tucker, Grif was somewhat surprised at how upset he felt all the same.

* * *

****

Author's Notes: Well, at 34 pages long in a Word Document I can safely say this chapter kicks the first chapter's butt in terms of length. XD Although, that's really because I couldn't find a spot where I wanted to stop it at so I just kept going and going. Sorry it took so long to and most of the other chapters will probably not be nearly as lengthy if I can find good points to stop on in them as I'm writing. And lookie, I managed to sneak in two more _Red vs. Blue_ characters as cameos while I was at it…they're like Easter Eggs, I suppose. :D

Switching things up for the third chapter and writing from Simmons' perspective, which means some new characters will be introduced! Also, probably a timeskip of sorts as well just to move things along since otherwise I will probably just keep writing dragged out conversations that go on forever, haha (it's my thing, it's what I do…I am honestly not sure why!).

Thank you to everyone who read the first chapter, and I hope this second chapter is an enjoyable read for you!


	3. Chapter 3

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show's characters…they are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

* * *

Chapter Three:

The gun clicked, signifying that the ammo clip for it was already spent. Just as he reached out to pick up another one a loud siren blared throughout the practice hall.

Training was done for today, it seemed.

Richard "Dick" Simmons sighed and looked over at the holographic target he had been aiming for on the other side of the room.

On the blue figure there were five red marks that illustrated where he had landed hits. He noticed two hits in the head and neck, which were the only two spots that could be considered "fatal." Two others would certainly incapacitate a target as they were at the left knee and right elbow specifically. The last one was a side wound that would only probably constitute as a "knick."

…And he'd fired at least twenty rounds that time.

As far as he was concerned, that was a huge failure. After all, even if it had been only three months since he had been transferred out of training from the military academy how many countless hours since had he been down here, working to improve his aim? He could almost picture his father's disappointment when he read his progress reports. His father was a pretty high-ranking officer in the military and all of them had access to the lower-ranking soldier training records for surveillance purposes.

He took in a deep breath, grateful at least that he wasn't in a bathroom when that thought had occurred to him like the last time: people tended to look at guys who punched mirrors while sobbing a little strangely, and getting discharged for something like that would certainly not make his dad say anything to him but "I told you so." before slamming the door in his face and locking it.

There was clapping coming from behind him and he turned around to see who it was this time being a sarcastic prick about his shooting ability only to pause at the sight of a friendly-looking smile coming from a young man clad in purple.

"You stayed late, huh?" Frank DuFresne was probably the closest person he had to a friend here, so he knew he hadn't been trying to make fun of him with the gesture. If anything, the bespectacled twenty-year-old's tendency to try to please everyone could be annoying though Simmons supposed there could be worse flaws for a person to have…like debilitating self-confidence and anxiety issues, for starters.

Simmons shrugged dismissively, motioning to his handiwork (_or lack thereof, in his opinion_), on the holographic target, "Yeah, for all the good it did."

"Oh, come on now! You shouldn't be so hard on yourself!" he had a sort of self-deprecating smile on his face, "I mean, you've improved a lot! I couldn't even hit the target."

Simmons gave the brown-haired man who had given himself the nickname of "Doc" when they'd first met a blank look, "…That's because you actively refuse to fire a gun."

"…Exactly! I'm a pacifist, so firearms really aren't my thing."

"You do know you're in the military, right?" Simmons had lost track of how many times he had asked his new friend that same exact question over the past couple of months.

"Only because it's the law to go into training and it would be rude not to keep at it now for the people processing my files." Doc smiled patiently, "But I still have the right to remain a conscientious objector!"

He wasn't even going to attempt to wrap his brain around that logic.

Instead, Simmons sighed seeing as how he knew exactly how many regulations Doc broke on a regular basis since he had pretty much memorized all standard and non-standard military protocols before being stationed here. But whenever he tried pointing that out, Doc would smile ingratiatingly and try to counter the argument with his own decidedly strange viewpoints.

…He supposed Doc was just insanely lucky that the commanding officer in charge of instructing them once they'd gone through basic had his own eccentric quirks and was a lot more laissez-faire in how he dealt with the soldiers under his command than someone else might be. Otherwise, he would have been court-martialed for insubordination or even possibly deported to The Slums like some criminals were long ago.

"Ah, Simmons, back at it, I see."

Speaking of their C.O., Simmons and Doc both started at his voice coming from directly behind them.

_Shit! How the fuck does he always manage to do that?_

At first glance, the older man dressed in blue regarding them both with a bemused expression didn't seem to be the type of person most would give a second thought to. He certainly didn't carry himself like any soldier Simmons had seen before with his relaxed posture and peaceful, friendly demeanor. He was truly the exact opposite of his father in his mannerisms, which, while something he was grateful for in a way given their strained relationship, somehow made Simmons unsure of how to deal with him at times.

…But Captain Butch Flowers moved as silently and without detection as only the best stealth operatives and infiltration specialists were capable of. He'd lost track of how many times he had turned around in an empty corridor only to be greeted by Captain Flowers' friendly voice and a quick handshake. One of the only things Simmons found rather odd about his C.O. was his need to be approachable to his men. On one hand, he appreciated it a lot, but on the other- well, it could probably be misconstrued by several army regulations.

If Flowers noticed the surprise his sudden appearance caused the two young men, he didn't acknowledge it. Instead, a calm smile etched its way onto his face as he waited for Simmons to respond to his initial comment.

Realizing this and feeling doubly mortified at making the captain wait as well as at realizing Flowers had more than likely seen his shooting earlier, he stammered out, "Y—yes, sir!"

Flowers chuckled, looking at the marks on the target, "You're improving."

"Er…" Simmons' face blanched, appreciating the compliment but knowing it wasn't deserved, "I…fired twenty rounds, sir."

The captain walked over to the three dimensional image, studying it carefully.

At length, he said, "I was looking at the program logs earlier. This is only your fourth attempt at the high-speed routines, correct?"

Simmons nodded. He'd been a miserable failure at stationary target practice when he was training at the academy, so he had spent untold amounts of time there practicing in his off-hours. Eventually, he had improved enough that he had been trying his hand at the moving target simulations, but only recently feeling borderline confident enough to attempt the higher speed routines that were more designed to closely resemble situations one might find on the field.

"Hitting the enemy that much will certainly ruin their day, don't you think?" Flowers asked, "…Even if it takes you fifteen shots to get there, so long as they don't hit you beforehand there's no problem. You'll be ducking and taking cover in real battles, so missing shots is inevitable."

"Um…"

"Though conserving ammunition should be a priority as well out in the field, so it's best to use the programs here to figure out how to do just that before getting stuck in a situation where ammo will be limited." Their C.O. nodded towards the hologram, "But, you're on the right track in regards to that already."

Simmons looked at the hologram as well, then back at Flowers quizzically, "I'm…afraid I don't follow, sir."

All he saw when he looked at the damn thing were all of the reminders of the mistakes he was still making.

Flowers smiled patiently, an eyebrow raised in mild amusement at his subordinate officer's confusion, "Your first fifteen shots missed, yes, but your last five didn't." he looked pointedly at the four serious 'wounds' again, "And your last four were clean hits that would have taken a real human out of a fight completely."

Simmons blinked, staring at the hologram again. He hadn't even noticed that when he had been shooting, but his commanding officer was completely right about what had happened now that he did think back on it. All of his final rounds were the ones that had made contact.

Their captain saw the surprised understanding flickering across Simmons' face and clapped him on the shoulder in a warm gesture that was almost fatherly. The young man had to work quickly to school his face into a professional expression to avoid grinning like an idiot or tearing up like an even more pathetic idiot at the contact.

…He really did have to work on how emotional he tended to get over any sort of positive interaction with male authority figures in his life. If he thought about it too much, it was downright embarrassing.

"Always focus on your improvements, Simmons, and dwell less on your failures. It's a much more effective way to motivate yourself to keep trying." Flowers told him, apparently not noticing Simmons' reaction to his earlier action. Or, more likely, he did but chose to be polite and not address it in order to save the younger man from being further mortified.

"Y—yes, sir!" Simmons heard his voice catch and hated himself a little more, but enthusiastically saluted his superior anyways.

Flowers chuckled in response, "At ease, soldier. I'm not here in my capacity as your commanding officer."

"Y—you're not?"

Well, he should have figured that out sooner: now that he was really looking at the older man closely, Simmons noticed he was dressed in the darker blue combat outfit that he seldom wore when giving the younger recruits under his command guidance. Usually he wore a different set of aqua-colored armor when serving as their C.O. for some reason.

It was Flowers' uniform of sorts for his other military duties. Though, to be honest, Simmons wasn't entirely sure of what those were exactly. He didn't feel it was in his right to pry for personal information from those higher ranked than himself and Flowers never seemed inclined to elaborate on his other duties either. Though Simmons wouldn't say he was evasive or secretive about them, just not very forthcoming about whatever those duties really entailed.

It made sense, in a way: with Simmons' less-than-stellar test scores (not that he wasn't more than capable or intelligent when it came to scholarly pursuits: he was just never able to do his absolute best on subjects when there was a lot of pressure and heavy stakes involved due to his nerves generally just getting in his own way) and Doc's own as well, they probably weren't top-priority soldiers for quick advancement. It was only natural, therefore, that the soldier assigned to command them also had other duties.

…He could understand The Council's assessment in theory at least, though he was desperate to prove them wrong all the same. Which, unfortunately, often led to cases of him getting too much into his own head and messing things up even further: it was a never-ending cycle that often lead to frustration.

"Oh, are you here for training of your own, sir?" Doc, however, in his bid to be friendly and cordial to everyone, seemed to have no problems overstepping bounds in terms of rank. A trait that was definitely going to get him into trouble one of these days.

"You betcha." But, fortunately for Doc, Flowers was laidback about that sort of thing, "I'm going to be going on a mission soon, so I figured I should warm-up first."

Just then, it occurred to Simmons that he had never actually seen Captain Butch Flowers so much as fire a weapon before. In a way, Simmons was rather curious about his skills: he always seemed quite knowledgeable on the subject when instructing them or offering advice, but the young man knew from personal experience that sometimes innate knowledge didn't translate over to ability. He knew more about the mechanics of guns and the physics behind firing them than most of the soldiers around his age did because he had studied them so hard, but he was still just barely improving when it came to his actual shooting ability, after all.

Before he could work up the nerve to request permission to stay and observe in order to lessen his curiosity, Flowers spoke up again, "So, for the next few days you'll be on your own. Train hard, but don't forget to take it easy sometimes." He gave Simmons special notice, "I know a certain soldier here hasn't left base yet even though he has leave to do so."

"Um…" he couldn't really deny the comment and his face flushed in embarrassment. Where would he go, though? He knew no one really close enough to stop by for a friendly visit within the city and he shopped online for most things anyways.

…He could visit his mother, he supposed, since she had mentioned in her last message not feeling very well. It wasn't like he would have to worry that much about seeing his dad there: even if he wasn't away on business, the man had no time for his family-it had always been like that whenever Simmons or his mom were feeling under the weather.

One time, when Simmons had been five or so and had broken his arm after accidentally falling down the stairs it had taken the senior Richard Simmons a full week to notice his cast and his only comment upon noticing was that it wouldn't have happened if the boy had had better balance.

"Take a nice, relaxing walk outside if nothing else." His superior advised, thankfully pushing Simmons past his embarrassment and his not-very-pleasant trip down memory lane, "It does wonders for stress management."

"That's true!" Doc chimed in helpfully, "I know a great spot just outside the base that's amazing for yoga."

"Now that sounds lovely." Flowers nodded approvingly at Doc's suggestion, "I might have to try that out with you sometime, DuFresne." He looked as if he'd come up with a brilliant idea just then, "Or we could all go together. It would be a team-building exercise."

"Sounds fun!"

"Um…" Simmons inwardly sighed, having almost forgotten about Captain Flowers' leading quirks sometimes, "I'm…not sure regulations would allow that, sir."

Flowers sighed in slight disappointment, "You're right, of course. The chain of command can be quite strict with that sort of thing, unfortunately." He smiled, "Thank you for reminding me before I got too carried away again, Simmons."

"Of course, sir." He wasn't sure why, but he felt he'd somehow managed to dodge a bullet there.

…Maybe it was because he had seen the shorts Doc liked wearing for yoga and it already didn't leave much to the imagination even _without_ having actually seen Doc wearing them.

"And, DuFresne," Flowers turned to his other subordinate, "When I get back I'd like to talk to you about possibly applying for the medic program."

Doc seemed surprised at the statement, though he smiled sheepishly in response to it and nodded his head in understanding.

"Your alternative field medicine approaches aren't perhaps ideal…" No doubt he was referring to the time when Doc had tried dressing a gunshot wound in the simulation runs with a glass of orange juice and a rubber ducky (of all things), "But your general outlook might be better suited to that line of work than soldiering and we could always use more field medics who try to do their jobs well, if nothing else."

Ah, so Flowers had been trying to come up with a creative solution to Doc's professed pacifism. Simmons was impressed: any other C.O. would have probably punished Doc for insubordination by this point, but Flowers had decided to take a different approach.

In a way, he was glad: Doc could try his patience sometimes, but he was by far the friendliest soldier Simmons had encountered here. Most of the other recruits in their rank ignored him. Or, worse yet, seemed to pick up on his anxiety and confidence issues and teased him mercilessly- Doc was more understanding about them given his own eccentricities and how often his own views got him made fun of by others. Even though medic training would take Doc out of the unit entirely, it was probably the best fit for a self-proclaimed 'conscientious objector' in the military and he wouldn't have to worry about him getting into trouble anymore. Plus, at the very least they could still exchange messages.

"…I'll discuss it more with you when I get back." Flowers told him.

Doc nodded, "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir! This will be just like the time when I applied for medical school right after academy training was up and got rejected!"

Flowers looked bemused, "Well, hopefully it will turn out differently."

"You bet! This time I won't post my academy transcripts."

Simmons had to bite down on his lip to keep from saying that he'd still have to do that, not wanting to rain on his friend's parade with his tendency to be an "insufferable know-it-all" as some of the other soldiers liked to refer to him.

Just then the double-doors to the training room opened and a man in white battle armor that Simmons had seen around the base but never spoken to walked in. He regarded the three of them for a moment before completely ignoring the two lower-ranked soldiers and placing his attention entirely on their commanding officer.

"Ah, there you are, chap!" he greeted in an accent Simmons recognized as an old Earth one called 'British' that was pretty rare to hear at all anymore, "Deciding to start early, are we? That's the spirit!"

Flowers dismissed his subordinates with a nod of his head and a warm smile, the two young men taking their cue and quickly departing from the training zone.

Simmons glanced over his shoulder once out of curiosity as he left, remembering his earlier failed intention of asking Flowers if he could observe his training for a moment.

To his surprise, the man in blue didn't pick up one of the assorted firearms in the practice hall. Instead, he grasped one of the utilitarian combat knives.

With a seemingly simple flick of the wrist and without so much as even glancing at his intended target as his attention focused entirely it seemed on conversing with the mustached man who had addressed him earlier, the knife flew through the air in a silver blur.

…Its blade was neatly embedded up to the hilt right between the eyes of the hologram that had been charging the two men seconds before from the other side of the hall just as the doors closed behind the surprised young soldier.

* * *

There were many bases throughout Above Ground: the military being one of the first things the original Council had prioritized establishing when people were relocated from the underground mining colony later referred to as The Slums to the surface.

The earlier bases had been built around what had at the time been the outskirts of the new settlement, though now they were more or less just smack in the middle of the city thanks to population and development growth with the large, constantly being upgraded and built upon Administration Center where The Council and other higher-ups in the Above Ground government conducted business being located in the very center of it all, easily towering over any of the other buildings in the city. They were easy enough to discern from their older architectural designs, no matter what attempts were done to keep them updated as well as by their smaller sizes in general compared to the much larger, multi-tiered bases that had been built in the generations since Above Ground had been established.

Simmons had originally assumed that, after the military academy, he would have been assigned to one of the smaller, earlier bases as that was usually the established norm for green recruits.

To his surprise, he and Doc had been handpicked by Captain Butch Flowers for whatever reason he still couldn't fathom. Even if he knew he could do more than that, his test scores had been abysmal at best and from what Doc had said, his weren't any better: so _why_ anyone would select them personally was a total mystery. Which meant that they had been transferred to the most recent and one of the most high-tech military bases instead since Flowers was assigned there.

…It was known as the Mother of Invention (odd name for a base, he personally thought) and it was fucking _huge_: nearly competing with the Administration Center in terms of height and width.

Evidently, similarly to the Administration Center and a few other prominent buildings in Above Ground, it had been constructed from the hollowed-out remnants of one of the original colony ships that had been abandoned when the first settlers moved underground. He supposed it could be true given the sheer size of the building: those colony ship specs were quite impressive in the records given how they were made to carry pretty much everything needed for permanent settlement along with a shitload of people, though little if anything spaceship-like remained visible in the base itself. It simply appeared to be your standard state-of-the-art building at first glance.

…With soldiers routinely on patrol on the grounds, tanks and other military vehicles parked in front of large hangars- and it was made out of a highly-resistant shielding material in the off-chance that someone might actually be stupid enough (_or suicidal enough_) to try attacking.

Hell, the area around the base was more akin to being its own highly efficient small city. It wasn't really surprising that Simmons didn't feel the need to leave the grounds much when he had free time.

Besides, walking around the city made him oddly self-conscious about his social awkwardness and not having a ton of friends didn't help, so it kind of bummed him out instead of helping him unwind.

It didn't help that whenever he walked the clean, orderly streets where everyone always had plenty of personal space and room to get to their destinations and got lost in the incessant chatter of others floating through his ears as they ignored him- with the pale yellow sunlight of this world beating down on him or the shade from clouds overhead, he somehow always, _always_ managed to stop walking in front of one of the thick, forbidden-looking metal doors with computer screens flashing red warning signs to move along that signified one of the sealed-off elevator shafts to The Slums.

He'd always stare at the door for several seconds, fingers twitching at the possibility of just prodding the security terminal coding before an officer would ask him if he needed anything and he'd hurry along his way.

…Simmons had lost count of the times that had occurred, truthfully.

At first, he'd understood the desire. Admittedly, Simmons had left there without a proper goodbye to someone he had grown oddly attached to in a short amount of time when he had been most desperate for any kind of friendship or contact. It was of his own volition, of course: he'd been all too terrified of ruining not only his friendship with Grif, but what had always been his plans for the future so he'd felt it was a necessary choice even if he sometimes still kicked himself over it. It was only natural to have lingering feelings of doubt and guilt over it.

…But going on two years? It unnerved Simmons that he still held so much regret over his choice.

Even if he probably had felt more alive and free in that excursion than he had in his entire life, and it was quite sad to unfortunately admit to himself how true that probably was, it still seemed ridiculously pathetic to him.

When he did that sort of thing, Simmons could almost picture his father looking down on him disappointed...and Grif laughing in amusement before making a joke about how he needed to lighten up more.

He honestly wasn't sure which of those images upset him more, so he started trying to avoid going into the city altogether. It was the most logical response he could think of to a decidedly very illogical situation.

The training hall that they had been in was located in one of the subbasements, so they rode the main elevator to ground floor level with Simmons mostly tuning out Doc's inane chatter about New Age medicine and the culinary wonders of banana nut bread as they went.

It wasn't until the elevator doors chimed open and they stepped out into the well-lit, but sparsely decorated ground floor with its clear sheet of windows (deceptively weak-looking, but not even a barrage of bullet fire or a rocket could break the thick panes of the translucent shielding the windows had in lieu of glass) that Doc said something that caused him to key into the conversation again.

"…Although, Captain Flowers might be right about the benefits of taking some time away from the base, Simmons." His friend looked at him in concern, "You work yourself way too hard. Have you ever gone on vacation before?"

Simmons huffed, at first wanting to reply that for his productivity it was best that he keep with routine if he could and, that to him, working in general actually _was_ fun…but he didn't want to offend Doc's more sensitive nature. Although, given what some people said about the bespectacled soldier to his face at times it seemed nearly impossible to do. Simmons envied the other young soldier's self-esteem, but he also felt the urge to defend himself from the viewpoint that he couldn't ever relax. Okay, well, that was mostly true because he was overly high-strung and he knew it, but that didn't mean he wanted people to _think_ it about him all the same since that could lead to future taunting.

So, instead, he said simply, "Once. Two years ago."

Doc whistled, "…That's a pretty long time, Simmons." And, when he put the timeframe together in his head, "You mean before you had to go to the academy?"

He nodded briefly. When it seemed like Doc was waiting for him to elaborate he added, "I…don't really want to talk about it."

An understanding look crossed over his teammate's features, "That bad, huh?"

"Actually…no." he couldn't help the nostalgic smile that spread upon his face, "It was really great."

Doc tilted his head and regarded Simmons with a confused look in his eyes, "So, why do you not want to talk about it, then?"

The other soldier shifted uncomfortably under his regard, his eyes darting to some other soldiers heading towards the elevator. With Doc it was probably okay to talk about what had happened, but someone else happening to overhear it…

His face paled at the dawning realization beginning to creep up onto his friend's face.

"Don't tell me you went—"

Without thinking, he pushed his gloved hand over Doc's mouth, green eyes taking in the two female soldiers moving past them to the elevator.

"Why, yes, Doc, it _was_ a surprise!" he rambled in a high-pitched squeal, his brain trying to come up with something to say to divert attention from Doc's failed inquiry, "How'd you guess I found the…er, ice machine?"

Simmons so wanted to shoot himself. He really did.

The two women looked at both men strangely before the door to the elevator shut, probably trying to figure out what he'd been blabbing on about so hysterically.

Simmons sighed as they disappeared from view, rather disappointed that his skills talking around women were still as woefully lacking as they had always been.

Slowly, he removed his hand from Doc's mouth, "That isn't something you should say out loud, Doc." He advised.

Doc nodded, apparently now remembering where they were, "Sorry." He looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and awe, "But…it's true?"

They moved over to the side of the building with the windows and Simmons nodded. He looked at Doc skeptically, "Don't believe me?"

He shook his head emphatically, "Of course I do, you wouldn't lie about something like that."

Simmons was touched by the brown-haired soldier's acceptance of what he'd just said and he was rather relieved that he wasn't challenged in any way to prove it too.

"So, what's it like down there?" his tone was conversationally light as if he were talking about anything under the sun, but there was a curious spark in Doc's brown eyes.

Simmons raised an eyebrow incredulously, "You mean you want to know if it's as bad as everyone says it is?"

Doc looked absolutely offended at the accusation, "Of course not! I mean, I know it's probably not great or anything, but I always believed the media and government portrayals of everybody living down there were way too harsh to be accurate." He frowned, "And quite mean too! It's easy enough to stereotype like that when most don't know enough to refute it."

Sometimes, Doc's sensitive and overly politically correct way of thinking did hold some moments of logic. He was grateful now was one of those times.

He relaxed somewhat, thinking back on his impromptu vacation. Well, it was probably more like he was "fleeing down there" because he wanted to prove he could and he really hadn't wanted to be around his dad on one of the rare instances when the senior Simmons had been forced to take leave from his work- but who was being picky?

"It isn't…anything like how it's described here." He admitted, "I mean, it's crowded as all fuck and there's different views on things…but, most of the people are pretty nice in their own ways." His face tinged pink slightly at memories that still came way too quickly to him after all this time, "I even…made a few friends."

It was the first time he'd ever said anything about his time in The Slums to someone else. He supposed it was because at least Doc was a pretty neutral listener compared to others in his life. He was pretty sure his mom was still in denial over the whole thing, despite the note he'd left her: she'd always been a bit more gullible when it came to news reports. Beyond not caring much in the first place about what his son did, his father _never_ tolerated anything that went against military protocol and the situation in The Slums was always a trigger subject in that regard.

"That's pretty nice." Doc smiled slightly, "Do you keep in touch?"

Simmons gave him a blank look, not sure if he should even try to dignify that with an answer.

…He wish he could have kept in touch, truthfully. But that was entirely beside the point.

Doc thought about his question for a few seconds and realization struck him as to why Simmons was not responding. His smiled turned sheepish, his own cheeks reddening, "Right! Sorry! I forgot that it's not like that's an area you can communicate with easily."

"It's okay. I…sort of knew that when I went down there in the first place."

Doc looked slightly sympathetic again, perhaps Simmons' voice had caught on some unknown pitch to illicit the reaction, but then he quickly regarded his friend somewhat in awe, "Still, I'm impressed! Going down there by yourself and not to 'slum,'" he used the term disparagingly, and it made sense to Simmons why someone like Doc would dislike the concept (also, it made him feel somewhat touched that Doc apparently thought enough of his character that he didn't even pertain the idea that Simmons could have just gone down there to harass Slum residents like other kids do), "I don't think I'd ever have the courage to do something like that."

Being looked at with anything akin to admiration was a hard thing for Simmons to process and he wiped at his eyes slightly to offset the watery feeling beginning to well up in them. Damn it, he was _not_ going to keep crying every time someone said something remotely positive about him!

"Were your parents upset with you?" Doc was still plowing along with his questions, thankfully missing another one of Simmons' embarrassing inner battles in the process, "I know my family would have freaked!"

"Um…" he paused, trying to think back on the day when he'd reluctantly went back to the surface and managed to trudge his protesting feet home.

His mother had been upset, yes- hysterically bawling and hugging him the second the door had opened. After composing herself a good ten minutes later and moving the tall boy to arm's length, she scrutinized him to ensure that he looked all right and healthy, and then smiled…which he had returned reassuringly. After that, she just seemed to want to pretend the entire worrying affair of late teenage rebellion never happened and he decided to honor that for her own sake.

His father, as he had expected, barely seemed to notice that he'd even been missing. The only mention of him even knowing that Simmons had been gone and to _where_ was one emotionless look his way and a clipped comment about how he expected that his son had gotten whatever it was out of his system and that training should be his top priority from that point on.

…And when Simmons went to bed that night, alone in his way-too quiet room he'd wished instead for an ugly, messy couch and someone who at least tried to stave off sleep to let him get a few of the things swirling through his mind out in the open.

"My mom had been a little upset." He figured it was best to not complain to Doc about his issues with his father. He was trying to learn to be a little less open about that side of himself to others now, just to avoid potential embarrassment later on in the form of bullying. Doc was nice and all, but several of the other younger soldiers stationed here? …Total assholes. He wasn't about to give them anymore ammunition to use against him if he could help it.

If Doc noticed the intentional absence of anything related to his father in Simmons' response, he chose not to mention it.

They had moved closer to one of the exits leading to the outside yards and the conversation between them died instantly when the door opened. Three armored soldiers had been making their way to the main building of the Mother of Invention base entered. It was best to never discuss The Slums around people when you didn't know their views on the subject. Simmons was thankful that Doc had enough common sense to remember that, at least.

The three soldiers were ones he knew belonged to a higher-ranked program housed here: some sort of top secret covert operation for The Council. Simmons had seen them numerous times around the base, though he didn't know any of them personally. When he'd been younger, he had heard his father mutter under his breath something about "Freelancers" when contacting colleagues. His father had a lot of contacts and connections throughout the military and government, and he apparently knew a lot of things going on behind the scenes because of that…but, since they never talked and his father would never discuss confidential information with a no-name anyways, it was beside the point. Simmons had honestly been surprised to discover it was a self-contained Above Ground military unit and not a codename for some sort of mercenary group, which was always what the name brought to mind for him anyways. While he still didn't know much about the group or how they operated, from what he gathered the name came from the fact that they were only loosely associated with The Council and were given more freedom in how they approached their missions.

…And the reason for that, apparently, was because a lot of their missions were of the decidedly nasty variety. The general consensus amongst most run-of-the-mill soldiers stationed at the base was to have as little interaction with the group as possible.

Still, from what he had heard and the fact that they were usually seen more in general too, the trio conversing amongst themselves now were usually considered at least somewhat more approachable. If a person was tasked with finding a Freelancer for whatever reason, they were often considered the safest bets.

"Okay, that was actually fucking scary." A blond-haired young man probably only a couple years older than Simmons and Doc, it seemed, wearing steel-colored armor with yellow trim shuddered quite visibly as he recalled whatever he was referring to.

"…It certainly was something." Another blond-haired man with pale blue eyes and purple armor in a decidedly more violet hue than Doc's and with signs of actual use given the slight dents one could see in it despite obviously being well-maintained agreed.

"That…can't be normal, right?" the first speaker seemed quite upset at whatever had happened, "I mean, humans can't do that sort of thing physically."

"No, Wash, it is perfectly normal for someone to be able to throw a tank across a field." The brown-haired man in tan armor's tone was patronizingly sarcastic. There was a scar running down the right side of his face, showing off an eye that was somewhat opaque and unseeing- the result, no doubt, of a rather bad injury.

The younger of the three, Wash (Simmons was pretty sure it was short for "Washington"- for whatever reason, the codenames for Freelancer soldiers were various states/provinces from a country that used to exist back on Earth. He'd never understood why and he doubted very much that anyone would bother explaining it to him even if he asked), didn't seem to pick up on the fact that his friend was teasing him…or he was so used to it he didn't take offense anymore, "So is super-strength one of her armor's specific tech upgrades?"

"It would have to be." The man in violet armor frowned somewhat, "…Though the combat skills are all natural, I bet."

Washington nodded his head in agreement, whistling appreciatively, "Yeah, it's kind of insane that she was only just now recruited."

"…Especially since our last new recruit did something as embarrassing as, oh, I don't know….getting a grappling hook attached to his balls." The brown-haired soldier grinned.

The younger man's face took on an embarrassed shade of red Simmons was all too familiar with at the comment (_strange to see how it looked on someone else_), "Oh, fuck you! That only happened once."

"I know." He laughed jovially, "And it's _still_ hilarious."

The other blond-haired soldier was trying his hardest to keep the slight smile beginning to form on his face from getting any larger, "…It is rather impressive that you managed to do that at all, if you think about it." He said, as a way of trying to alleviate the younger Freelancer's embarrassment while still having fun at his expense.

Washington glared at both of them in mild annoyance before letting out an exasperated sigh, "I hate you guys."

"Aw, we love you too, buddy." Tan Armor joked, ignoring the glare sent his way in response.

Desperate to change the subject, Washington asked, "Hey, do you think she could beat Carolina in a match?"

His friends exchanged significant looks with one another. Apparently the seemingly harmless enough question had them both troubled for some reason.

"…That would probably be a really bad idea." The man in the violet armor (_the name "North" clicked in Simmons' head finally for him_) said.

Washington looked confused, "Why?"

"Because it would probably be more of a bloodbath than a friendly match."

The man in the tan armor (_"York" if memory was serving him right now_), let out a weary sigh, "You know how Carolina gets, Wash. She's already not too keen on how quickly Agent Texas has risen in the rankings." He frowned slightly, "I'm not even sure she's stopped running practice drills this last week."

North looked at the troubled expression darkening the man's face, "And I can guess where you were on your way to when we ran into you, then."

An almost sheepish-looking grin crossed the other Freelancer's face at that, "Am I that obvious?"

"A little." He had an understanding smile on his face.

"…About what?" Washington looked completely out of the loop at the exchange, glancing back and forth between his teammates for any clue as to what he was missing.

Unfortunately for him, this lead to more amusement at his expense on his friends' behalves.

Smiling, York clapped him on the shoulder, "…We'll tell you when you're older, kiddo. Maybe even with picture books."

He pouted, "…You both suck."

York's expression lingered on amused for a few more seconds before he turned serious again, "…I'm not too sure what her reaction's going to be to the tank incident today." He admitted finally, looking unsure as to whether or not he even wanted to know it.

"…Hopefully not as explosive as South's will be." North's voice had a weary note to it that hadn't been there before.

York and Washington both gave North sympathetic looks. Agent South Dakota was particularly famous around the base for her volatile temper if in a bad mood: Simmons was fairly certain some of the dents he'd passed on the walls were from her fists, if rumors could be believed, and the fact that the walls had metal plating kind of made that a pretty fucking scary notion to him.

"Is she still mad?" Washington asked quietly, "That you…rose up higher in the ranks than her?"

North gave the younger soldier a grateful smile for his concern, "Among…other things." He told him, sharing another look with York that seemed to say a lot more than he felt comfortable talking about out loud.

"That sucks." Washington didn't notice the silent exchange between his teammates, frowning to himself, "And Maine's been even more withdrawn than usual too…" his tone was starting to sound even more worried.

Another pointed look over the top of Washington's downturned head, both Freelancers' expressions momentarily clouding over at what he had just said.

North patted Washington's shoulder in a comforting gesture, "No need to worry, Wash. I know my sister. She's going to be fuming for a little while longer, but she'll come around eventually- and be even more fired up than before to replace me in the mission rankings."

York nodded in agreement, "And I wouldn't worry too much about Maine. You know how he gets sometimes. You're about the only person he remotely interacts with, so I'm pretty sure he'll come around to…" he struggled to come up with a way to finish that sentence, "…Not really talking but being okay hanging around your general vicinity again soon."

"…" Washington looked at him doubtfully.

York shrugged, "Okay, I have no fucking clue how the two of you have a friendship." He admitted, "The guy _never_ talks!"

Washington couldn't help but smile slightly at the exasperated tone of York's voice and the other man seemed relieved that the younger Freelancer had cheered up somewhat at least.

Their conversation continued well down the hallway, though they moved out of ear-range for Doc and Simmons, the two only hearing faint indecipherable snippets of conversation after that. They hadn't been acknowledged at all since the three had been so engrossed in their own dialogue.

…Which, Simmons was grateful for, truthfully: they hadn't _meant_ to eavesdrop, after all, so he would have been horribly upset having been caught doing just that.

"…Crazy, huh?" Doc asked in a joking manner a few seconds later, looking similarly relieved.

He could only nod in agreement, "Tell me about it."

The more he heard of Project Freelancer, the more certain he was that the program's bizarre reputation at the base was not without merit. Something about that exchange had made him feel uneasy, though he couldn't place _why_ that was exactly.

Well, beyond the part about a soldier throwing a God-damned tank across a field.

…That was just fucking insane.

* * *

That could have probably gone better.

Simmons felt the tension in his muscles only slightly lessen as he made his way across the field, only barely registering that he'd made it back to base at all.

His first day "off" and he'd avoided going out with Doc for his routine yoga practice, instead opting to visit his mother at home.

He had always hated going into the city and this trip had just reminded him why. Generally speaking, for as advanced a society as Above Ground was, the public transportation sucked ass.

It had been running late, which meant that he'd had to stand awkwardly waiting for one of the shuttles to arrive. All the while, he wished he had changed to regular street clothes instead of wearing the gray and black uniform all soldiers were required to wear outside of their special armor. …He would have, normally, but his mother actually liked seeing him in uniform and he'd wanted to do something nice for her since they hadn't seen each other in a while.

Simmons had always been self-conscious and he was horribly awkward in general when out in public, but in a military uniform he felt he stood out even more and for all the wrong reasons: he imagined the eyes of everyone around him boring into his scrawny, lanky frame and thinking it was only a matter of time before the pathetic excuse for a soldier before them could no longer pretend that he was cut out for such a profession.

…He'd practically thrown himself onto the shuttle when it finally got there, shaking with each breath as he tried to distill the sudden onslaught of panic those thoughts had caused him.

When the shuttle stopped in the high-end residential district with its spacious homes designed specifically for top-tier military personnel and their families and he stood to disembark, he ignored the dawning looks of smug realization he could just imagine on the faces of some of the other passengers.

"_Oh, so that explains it! He must be sticking around this long because he's got an in from his parents!"_

He tried walking away from the shuttle with jaw set and shoulders tall: a look he'd seen his father do effortlessly even in front of critics. Indeed, Simmons was fairly certain that was probably his father's natural and _only_ look. He never smiled or relaxed even in the few image files he showed up in during rare family outings.

Simmons then tried ignoring the nagging doubt that his attempt only looked laughable at best coming from someone as lanky and clunky as himself.

The visit with his mother was, thankfully, a bit more pleasant than the trip had been though he did worry a bit at how thin she looked and how exhausted she seemed to be since the last time he had seen her.

She'd brushed off his concern, taking a hold of his hand and he did notice with no mild amount of concern that her hands were as cold as ice despite how she had the house's temperature control gauge set to near sweltering levels. She moved them past her room upstairs, then past his father's (he couldn't remember a time when they'd actually shared a bedroom), and his own room to look at a painting she'd bought online recently, all while worrying about how he was doing at the base since he didn't message enough and her wondering if he was getting enough to eat there too.

…She could be a bit of a worrier at times and Simmons had long since learned that letting her indulge in it for a while made things run smoother.

Plus, it made her happy too and he preferred that to the distant, lonely look that he often saw in her eyes when she didn't think he was looking.

So he suffered through the Q and A session his visit turned into admirably, finally getting a chance to convince her to see a doctor when she had time to do so.

Neither of them mentioned his father or even glanced at the closed doors of the house that signified his territory that they had to have permission to enter.

The only real awkwardness from the visit had come at the end, when his mother stepped away from hugging him and said that next time she'd like to hear that he'd met someone special.

…She always made comments like that, even since he'd been a teen. Simmons had always tried to hide how deep his nervousness with interacting with people ran since he knew his mother's main reasoning for saying so was the hope of grandchildren someday. Admitting he had a fear of talking to girls in most situations in particular wasn't something he ever wanted to say to her, since he figured it would just make her more worried about him and he didn't want to disappoint her.

It also didn't help his nerves when he started picturing the exact moment he'd left The Slums whenever she said it now, regardless of how hard he would try not to.

So his voice caught in his throat then and he'd managed to make up an excuse about how he was too busy to really socialize at the moment. Which was partially true anyways, with the amount of extra training he'd been doing…which was what he so desperately wanted to be doing instead of having to talk to his mother about that topic in particular again, and then he'd been home free to think about his social failings, worry about his mother's health, and try to figure out how he could make up for lost time later on at target practice before daylight ended.

And, naturally, the ball of dread and nervous energy that had settled in the pit of his stomach as a result of his first attempt at taking his C.O.'s advice about trying to take some free time to relax, seemed even more unbearable than the one he usually carried around with him while on duty way.

…_Figured_.

"…I need those crates moved to the other side of this strip, pronto!"

A woman in a pilot's white uniform was balking orders at her assistants running about hectically nearby. Simmons hadn't even noticed that he'd moved so close to the docking area for the military transports on his way back to the barracks.

Just as he'd moved past them, the woman turned her head slightly and noticed his presence. She had brown hair clipped short and tan skin, having the appearance of someone who perhaps preferred being outside over indoors if she could arrange it.

"Hey. You." She narrowed her eyes and started walking in his direction with purpose, a data-pad in her gloved hand.

Simmons started, instinctively whipping his head around to see who behind him she was talking to: he figured there must be someone else there since he never really interacted with pilots.

…But there was no one in any close vicinity that he could see.

The woman was almost there and he took a step back at the sudden proximity, unsurely pointing a finger at his own chest with a questioning look on his face while tongue-tied for the moment, at least.

She let out an aggravated sigh, "Yes, _you_." She confirmed, with an expression that said she was far from impressed as she looked him over, "Are you stationed here?"

Simmons nodded, not sure if he could trust his voice yet and kicking himself mentally all the while for it.

"Ah, good. You're capable of responding, at least." Her tone had a joking, sarcastic quality to it.

"Um…"

Before he could formulate anything remotely articulate to say, the pilot was shoving the data-pad roughly into his hands.

"I was supposed to have someone deliver this information the minute we landed, but as you can see we're understaffed at the moment and getting anyone to do anything around here is worse than pulling teeth." She turned around to survey where the three soldiers under her command were moving the crates, "Not there-there…_there_!" she bellowed across the field to them, pointing to the corner opposite the one they had been moving the crates to.

The men looked to where she'd indicated, the trio letting loose a collective sigh as their shoulders sagged even more. Evidently, this was a routine they seemed sadly familiar with.

"…How many times they can get to the wrong corner on a rectangular field amazes me." The woman sighed herself, "…I counted five times once."

"…" Simmons, a complete stranger to this crew and routine, stood there mutely unsure of whether or not he should make a comment on if she was simply talking to herself.

She turned her attention back to him, "At any rate, you showing up just now completely saved all of our asses." She tapped the data-pad lightly with her finger, "Take that inside the base and up to the highest level. It's supposed to go directly to the Counselor."

Simmons' eyes widened slightly at the title. Everyone more or less knew about the man who held it. On record he was in charge of the psychologists stationed in the medical ward who were tasked with maintaining the emotional and mental health of everyone stationed at the Mother of Invention though, in general, the medical staff tended to handle all daily matters on their own.

…In reality, he was actually the right-hand man of the person most people simply knew as the Director: the individual in charge of one of the most secretive branches of military operation for Above Ground- Project Freelancer. Not a lot was known about him (_highly classified shit, most definitely_), but he had a shit-load of clout in The Council, which in turn gave Project Freelancer a lot more freedom in general.

And the Counselor, naturally given that position, had duties that were very much far removed from the norm for a military psychologist.

Curiously, Simmons' gaze dropped down to the data-pad he was clutching tightly. Whatever data the blinking lights swimming across the sleek surface contained, it apparently was too risky to send using instant transferring through the normal communication channels. The red lines blinking every so often amongst the blues and greens of that mysterious data stream meant that it was encrypted heavily too.

"It's secure, so no worries there. Though I'd recommend not losing it."

He opened his mouth at this, throat dry, to ask if it really was such a good idea to hand off the pad to just about anyone then.

"It's not anything highly vital." She seemed to be able to read his expression even before he voiced his concerns, "They just like testing out new encryptions with everything." She smirked, "Even if you tried, I'm not sure you could get it deciphered."

…Well, no, probably not for awhile at least. But Simmons figured admitting he had a knack for technology probably wasn't a good thing at the moment, especially since he had no desire to break protocol _or_ hack a communiqué for Project Freelancer.

"Besides, you work here and no one is stupid enough to piss off the Director."

He gulped nervously and nodded. That much he knew was true: it was one of the most sure-fire ways to get demoted or court-martialed at the Mother of Invention.

"…Just tell him that Four Seven Niner corralled you into doing her a favor." She flashed a brief smile before adding, "Hopefully you'll get your ability to talk back by then."

Before Simmons could even process what had happened enough to try to explain that he wasn't really on-duty at the moment, she was trotting back over to the three pilots, "Put some muscle into it, we need this space cleared in an hour!"

At the sound of their sighing, Simmons let out one of his own at this strange turn of events.

Well, at least all of that tension and nervousness in the aftermath of his "free day" was gone.

…Now it was replaced with the usual anxiety he felt when he was determined to get a task done and done well.

Thank goodness for small miracles, he supposed.

* * *

As it turned out, the interaction with the Counselor wasn't nearly as nerve-wracking as he had expected it to be.

The data-pad itself apparently gave him access through the higher security levels that safeguarded the top levels of the Mother of Invention and he was on the top floor in a matter of moments.

Another soldier pointed him in the direction of an office off in a side hallway and he found the dark-skinned man usually referred to only as the Counselor sitting behind a surprisingly plain metallic desk. Numerous data-pads were collected around him and on the desk was a computer terminal with figures and coding swimming on it in a quick pace Simmons couldn't begin to guess at from a mere glance.

…The walls of the space, from floor to ceiling, were covered in computer terminals as well. They were off at the moment, but it made the twenty-year-old wonder what the Counselor was working on that could require so much room to display all of the information on. A paranoid part of his brain kept wanting to infer that perhaps the Counselor monitored all areas of the base itself, but that part was freaking him out more than just a little bit, so he told it to shut the fuck up.

When he handed him the data-pad and said what the pilot had instructed him to, the Counselor sighed and mumbled something about how Four Seven Niner certainly had her own way of fulfilling objectives before thanking Simmons for finishing his unexpected task so quickly.

Even with the slight smile on his lips, it was as clear a dismissal if Simmons had ever heard one. He left quickly, somewhat unnerved.

Despite the smile and the gentle, calm tone and demeanor of the Counselor there'd been something oddly cold about him all the same. Simmons wasn't sure what it was, but he really didn't want to interact with him too much if he could avoid it.

On his way back to the elevators, an open door caught his attention from out of the corner of his eye and he stopped, his breath caught in his throat.

The room beyond was some sort of lounge area: chairs and tables stretched every which way, all facing the wall on the opposite side of the room.

Well, "wall" was a bit inaccurate since, similar to the ground level's outer wall, it was made entirely out of that same translucent and unbreakable material the base used in lieu of glass for security reasons.

Since the room was obviously more for recreational purposes since there were no terminals or data-pads in sight and the door hadn't even been programmed to shut, Simmons figured there was no harm in heading inside for a few minutes, just to take a look.

He crossed the threshold quickly before the more practical side of his brain argued that he technically didn't have the clearance to be on this level now that he had turned over the data-pad as his hand hesitantly reached out to touch the cold surface of the window as he gazed outwards.

The sky was a clear blue today and top floor of the Mother of Invention was so far up that he could even see clouds drifting close by. He gazed down, only seeing indiscernible shapes of green, brown, white, black, and gray: the "building blocks" of Above Ground as viewed from an impossibly high vantage.

His breath caught again and somehow he was reminded of Grif and their talk about amazing views.

…This, he mused, would definitely be one the tan boy would love to see.

A clicking electric sound filled his ears.

"So the operation is a go then?"

"Yes, in a few weeks we're moving out." A voice, highly distorted and sounding far away, garbled out in response to the earlier question, "Be careful, Connie."

"…You too."

There was a loud click as the portable communicator flicked off in a dark corner at the other side of the room.

Simmons started, not realizing that the lounge hadn't been quite as empty as he'd first thought and that he'd unwittingly stumbled onto the tail end of what had sounded like a private conversation. His face reddened in embarrassment and he turned to profusely apologize.

A woman in brown armor, her brown hair parted with several longer strands threatening to fall into her left eye, stepped closer and assessed him carefully with a frown on her face. It seemed as if she was debating whether or not she wanted to ream him out for the intrusion.

Despite his hesitancy in talking to females normally, his embarrassment over what happened propelled him enough to blurt out, "I…I'm really sorry! I didn't—didn't know anyone was—was here." He looked up at her unchanging expression and continued rambling, "I—I didn't…didn't hear anything either…honest!"

There were a few more tense moments when she gauged his words and body language, then, to his surprise (_and relief_), she smiled slightly, "Oh, don't worry about it! I was just saying goodbye to a friend. He's going on a mission soon."

There was nothing mocking or angry in her tone or demeanor, so Simmons relaxed somewhat though he was still a bit nervous talking to someone didn't know and a female no less!

She moved closer until they were standing only a few meters apart, an odd look crossing over her features again as she scrutinized him more. He squirmed uncomfortably, face red, not used to that kind of attention.

But, just as suddenly, recognition fell into her eyes, "I thought you looked familiar. You're one of Florida's recruits, aren't you?" her smile widened, "The one normally in maroon armor."

"Er…" he blinked, unsure about the sudden change of events again. It was true he wore maroon armor, but the name she said didn't ring a bell, "Who?"

Now it was her turn to look perplexed, "…Florida isn't your C.O.?" she asked.

Florida? That was another Freelancer codename, if he remembered correctly.

Simmons shook his head, grateful that the strangeness of the conversation was helping him to not get tongue-tied, "Captain Butch Flowers…is my commanding officer."

A look of understanding flashed across her features, "Ah, so that's what he's calling himself for the side project."

Simmons was starting to understand it himself now, though it seemed a bit hard to swallow, "Are you saying…Captain Flowers is a Freelancer agent?"

She nodded.

"Why…wouldn't he say anything then?"

It seemed odd to think a Freelancer would even be remotely interested in training recruits with academy scores like he and Doc had. There were probably an untold number of other soldier candidates who would be better fits for an elite agent right off the bat.

The woman looked at him sympathetically, "He probably thought it would be better if you didn't know." She tried supplying helpfully.

"I guess…" he couldn't help the doubtful and hurt tone that crept into his voice all the same.

The woman frowned in turn, "Project Freelancer isn't what it seems, you know." He was surprised by the harsh element in her tone, but she moved on from it quickly, "Florida's a decent guy, if a little odd. He probably wanted to keep you as out of the loop with his other line of work as possible for your team's sake."

"But why…have a team at all?" The whole concept made little to no sense to him.

"…Maybe he just wanted to be a part of something that Freelancer wasn't completely in control of again." She shrugged, "I can't say for certain, though. Sorry. He can be pretty quiet about his personal thoughts."

Simmons smiled slightly, after all, he'd just learned a pretty big secret about his C.O. as well that he'd never told them before, "Tell me about it."

She returned the gesture, though there was something oddly tired-looking about her smile when one looked at it more closely, "I'm Connecticut, by the way. C.T. for short."

His eyes widened at the reveal that he'd been talking to a Freelancer agent this whole time. Never mind that Captain Flowers was one too, he hadn't known about that until now, so it was still a bit hard to wrap his head around his friendly, sometimes all-too-lenient captain being such a soldier even if he had shown incredible knife throwing skills earlier.

She noticed the look on his face, "Relax. It's nothing to get worked up about, believe me." Her smile turned rather self-deprecating, "They'll tell you that too. I'm on the bottom end of the ranking board."

…He'd heard that term before, when the three Freelancers had been talking amongst themselves. It seemed odd that such an elite group of soldiers were apparently being pitted against and compared to one another. In his opinion, that didn't seem like a good way to build unit cohesion.

Given the darkening look on her face, he wasn't sure if he should risk asking for clarification. After debating about it for a second more, he decided it was probably best to ignore the curiosity gnawing at him for the moment.

"I'm…Simmons." Best to go for an introduction then, since she'd told him her name. That was usually how social protocol went, right?

She cocked her head to the side, "That's a general's name too, isn't it?"

He frowned, "Richard Simmons is my father."

She raised an eyebrow at the harshness in his voice and the tense body language he suddenly had, before giving him a small smile, "Well, I guess we all have things we're upset about."

He nodded, grateful she wasn't going to pry further.

Connecticut, C.T., turned her attention to the window, "It's a great view, huh?" she said appreciatively, "I can see why you came in here for it."

He looked out the window once more, nodding in agreement and smiling as well.

And then, before he even had a chance to realize what it was he said or how silly it would come across: "This would be an awesome spot to nap in."

C.T. was staring blankly at him then and his face was burning. Simmons was sorely tempted to bang his head right then and there on the window, but refrained since that would probably only make the situation worse and it would probably fucking hurt. A lot.

Finally, she smiled again, "…I guess it would be. There are some chairs if you want to—"

He raised his hands up to stop her, "Er…no! That—that's okay. Thanks, though…I mean—"

If Grif had been here, he could picture him laughing his ass off at his predicament. Somehow, it only made the situation worse.

"Connie, there you are!"

…Thankfully, he was saved from hyperventilating by the timely intervention of a surprisingly familiar voice.

C.T.'s face darkened once more and her expression turned to a scowl as the steel and yellow-armored figure approached them.

"Agent Washington." Simmons was surprised at the icy tone she had when addressing her comrade.

Washington's friendly smile faltered at this reception and he resembled for all the world a puppy who had just been kicked.

"Come on, Connie, don't be like that." He almost sounded close to pleading.

C.T.'s expression softened at least a little and she sighed, "…And what did I tell you about calling me Connie? We're not little kids anymore. I'm C.T. now."

…Simmons decided it was best to just keep his mouth shut on how she'd allowed someone else minutes ago to call her that nickname. This was definitely not an exchange he wanted to get in the middle of.

"R—right, sorry." Washington scratched the back of his head, shifting on the balls of his feet uncomfortably: "Carolina wants to see you."

She scoffed, "You mean she saw the newest mission rankings."

Washington looked as though he were about to reach out to grip her shoulder comfortingly, his hand wavering in the air, but then he changed his mind at her expression and let it fall back to his side in an awkward gesture, "…It wasn't your fault. That could have happened to any one of us." He said consolingly.

Her eyes narrowed, "Not to her. Not to Agent Texas." She took in a shaky breath and it almost seemed as if tears had welled in her eyes for a second before she composed herself, "But it happens to some of us a hell of a lot more than others."

"C.T. …"

"…Although I guess I should congratulate you on all of your recent successes, Wash." She was moving past him now towards the door, "You're improving so much you'll probably make it to the other side of the rankings spectrum soon. Then you'll have to have to finally decide where in Freelancer you still want to stand."

Washington said nothing to this, looking very hurt and unsure of what to do in the face of how upset his friend was.

C.T., having said her piece to him, turned to Simmons again, "It was nice meeting you, Simmons." She said, managing to force a smile for his sake to perhaps try and lesson the sudden tension in the air for the timid outsider, "Maybe you should save the nap until later though."

With that, she was gone, leaving him standing awkwardly with the distraught Freelancer who remained.

Washington sighed to himself, shaking his head, "First Maine, and now Connie too. I keep getting a really bad feeling about all of this." He mumbled.

Simmons stood silently, hoping maybe Washington wouldn't take notice of him and he could just leave.

"Oh, uh, sorry you saw that."

_No such luck, damn it._ The blonde was staring straight at him with an apologetic look in his gray eyes.

"Um…it's okay?" He tried to smile reassuringly to get this awkward moment over with, but it came across more as nervous probably.

Washington seemed emboldened by Simmons' effort though all the same and he smiled warmly back, "Hey, I've seen you around base, right?" he asked, looking at him in the same thoughtful way C.T. had when they'd first met, "You're one of Florida's soldiers."

…Well, no chance of a mistake on C.T.'s part there then if someone else knew Captain Flowers as Florida. Simmons nodded.

The Freelancer seemed pleased with himself that he got it right, "What brings you up here then?"

"Um…I—I had to deliver something." He wasn't sure if should go into more details on that or not.

Washington seemed to understand his hesitancy at least, "This place is pretty secretive, huh?" he frowned slightly, "Sometimes it's not quite what I expected it to be."

Simmons was almost tempted to ask what Washington _had_ initially thought Project Freelancer would be like, but he really didn't want to overstep any boundaries when it came to interacting with people he wasn't really familiar with yet.

Sitting on one of the chairs nearby, Washington somehow pulled an apple seemingly out of mid-air, "…Hungry?"

The red-haired soldier shook his head, staring perplexedly at the apple and trying not to make it too obvious that he really trying to figure out exactly _how_ Washington had somehow seemed to be holding onto a piece of fruit he clearly hadn't had anywhere near his person before.

…Maybe it was one of those things best left unexplained, regardless of how much wanted to figure it out from a logic stance.

Washington, not noticing the odd looks Simmons was now giving him, happily started munching away on his snack, "Well…if you…ever…" he was talking in between chews, "Need help…with…something…just…let…me know."

He swallowed the last bite and grinned, somehow holding out a suddenly materialized banana to Simmons now as though he'd been worried that perhaps the only reason Simmons hadn't wanted the other snack was because he only hadn't wanted to eat an apple, "I'm more of a joke on the team right now, but I like helping people out with things if I can." He explained, "And…if Florida likes you enough to train you, then that must mean you're a pretty decent guy!"

And, despite, the bizarreness of it all (_and man, did his brain really want to figure out where the fruit was coming from now!_), Simmons accepted the proffered snack this time and returned Washington's grin with a slightly less sure one of his own.

The Freelancer was earnest and his heart was in the right place if nothing else. It even seemed like it could be possible to be friends with him eventually, like with Doc.

…Simmons didn't know then though just how accurate C.T.'s suspicions about Project Freelancer were, or how maybe it would have been better for Washington to have listened more to his own beginning-to-form doubts in the long run.

If he had had even an inkling of what would happen later on, Simmons would have been the one trying to give Washington the same helpful offer.

A part of him would always feel guilty that he hadn't.

* * *

A few weeks later, Captain Butch Flowers (aka Agent Florida, apparently) returned from another of his missions.

When he'd called Doc and Simmons to the training floor again, they weren't really sure what to expect given how differently Flowers would run his unit compared to other C.O.s at the Mother of Invention. Many of their training exercises varied quite a bit depending on what he felt most needed attention in their list of skills.

…Simmons had been more than a little apprehensive for the past few days. There were rumors about a mishap involving Project Freelancer, and while he had seen a few agents here and there Washington was noticeably absent from the base. Or, at least, any of the areas Simmons had clearance for.

That struck him as odd: ever since their introduction earlier, Washington had gone out of his way to greet him when they passed by each other in the halls. He'd even opted to help him with target practice on occasion once he found out how regularly the younger soldier went there.

He couldn't help feeling a bit uneasy that he hadn't seen him at all recently, especially since there were so few people here he was on an even remotely friendly basis with. But, maybe he was just on a mission like Flowers had been and wasn't back yet. It was hard to tell with Freelancers since their missions were always so hush-hush in general.

…Neither he nor Doc, though, were prepared to be greeted by the sight of a new team member.

"Simmons, DuFresne…I'd like to introduce you both to Leonard Church." Flowers said in his usual light manner, "He'll be working with you from now on."

The man in cobalt-colored armor gave them a half-hearted wave, disinterest clearly evident in his blue eyes. He had short black hair and a small goatee, his eyes taking in the training room fully once before settling back on the two of them again.

"Let me guess. We're the fucking dream team, right?" his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

…Which was totally lost on Doc, "You bet!"

Simmons felt an eye twitch and looked imploringly over at Captain Flowers for more of an explanation as to why they were getting a new member this late in the year. He looked to be their age, so…had he been transferred from another squad then? Given his attitude, it certainly wouldn't have surprised Simmons if that was the case.

Flowers sighed, sending an apologetic look his way, "He doesn't always show it, but he has the capability to be a fine soldier."

"…So you can suck it." Church apparently didn't fail to see the look of disbelief crossing over Simmons' face at that last comment from their commanding officer.

"Plus, he came with a tank." Flowers interjected helpfully, hoping to diffuse the tension building between the two before a fight broke out.

A smirk crossed their new teammate's face, "Sheila and I go way back so try not to piss me off and I won't forget to tell her not to shoot at you."

Oh, well, Simmons could tell this was going to go over fucking great already.

But his curiosity got the better of him when his mind went over to Church's last remark, "You…call your tank Sheila?"

Church raised a black eyebrow, "Well, yeah, that _is_ her name." he frowned in thought as if remembering something, "And she gets pretty goddamned pissed if you forget it."

"…Your tank has a V.I.?"

He hadn't heard of many vehicles outside of research ones having Virtual Intelligences installed on them. Virtual Intelligences were incredibly expensive and hard to manufacture, so The Council had pretty strict regulations regarding them. He'd never actually interacted with one himself before.

The eager, curious glint in his eyes was very obvious.

Church sighed in exasperation, "Keep it in your pants, nerd, or I won't tell her not to shoot you."

Simmons' face flushed at the insult, but he glared back at Church all the same. Church returned the gesture, with that smirk still on his face.

"Now, now, you two. Let's all take a step back and take deep, calming breaths." Doc advised, trying to mediate between them.

They ignored him, still locked in their stare-off.

Flowers let out a soft sigh, but there was a smile on his face and his calm, patient demeanor he always had never left him: "…I have the feeling you men will get along just fine once things settle down."

* * *

…Only a few short months after Leonard Church's introduction to Flowers' squad, things ended up changing drastically.

The Insurrection, a militant rebellion group from The Slums, launched a surprisingly efficient attack on one of the power plants in Above Ground that crippled areas of the city for days.

The military reprisal ordered by The Council was quick, brutal, and effective- though the seeds of resistance seemed impossible to stop growing completely now that those living underground knew it was possible to strike blows to the people who kept them trapped down there.

In the aftermath that followed, there was going to be war. Lots of it.

Simmons worried about Grif and Kaikaina especially, but he knew there was nothing he or anyone could do for the people in The Slums when the orders started being given. …Except maybe pray.

Project Freelancer nearly collapsed in on itself when one of their own became a nearly unstoppable killing machine and three others in their ranks turned traitor and defected.

And, while out on what had apparently been a routine mission that he'd done several times over with no issues or complications whatsoever, Captain Butch Flowers was killed in action. Resistance fighters from The Slums were blamed for his death in the released reports.

Simmons barely had time to process it all before they were all dragged even more into the thick of things through an odd set of circumstances.

…He did cry himself to sleep for a few nights afterwards, though. It was the only time he had to himself for a long while.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Remember how I said this chapter would be shorter than the previous one? Well, I guess my brain had other ideas (I like to ramble in dialogue scenes when I get the ideas for them, I swears! XD).

At any rate, more world-building and story exposition in this chapter…all from Simmons' perspective while living in Above Ground, so I used that as an excuse to introduce several more characters we hadn't seen previously and foreshadow what is going to happen in the next couple of parts.

…Although I feel horrible about ending the chapter like I did (wah, I love Flowers so I felt awful having to do that to him, but that's sort of important to future plot points so I kind of had to do it, but still- I'm so sorry, Flowers! 0_0;). Certain characters introduced in this chapter (like North, York, and Washington) will have very differing plots in future installments, so their story-lines will definitely be a little altered the next time they show up (which includes some personality changes for Washington since this was definitely more his characterization before the Epsilon incident…oh yes, there was quite a bit of meaning behind Church showing up like he does at the end of this chapter, and it definitely does involve a certain connection he has to the A.I.s 0_0;).

But next chapter will feature story points from both Above Ground and The Slums, and will introduce some more characters into the fray too.

Thank you so much for reading the fic so far, and I hope this chapter was an enjoyable read for you (even with the ending being a bit of downer, orz)!

…Also, yay for Season 12 officially starting now! I *loved* the first episode. :D


	4. Chapter 4

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show's characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Chapter Four:

**The Slums**

The condensation on the metal piping collected into a small droplet of water that slowly dripped down and fell to the tunnel floor. Grif was watching the repeated drip so closely that his eyes were threatening to cross, the voices nearby droning on and on incessantly.

Fuck, he was bored.

Tucker, standing next to him, suddenly elbowed him in the side.

"Jesus, what the fuck?" he turned to glare at his friend, "Tucker-"

But the rest of Grif's angry remark trailed off when he saw the reason as to why his friend had interrupted his attempt to doze off where he was standing: a skill he was starting to master with aplomb, he might add.

An old man in red battle armor was glaring directly at him, fingers twitching as if he was just barely resisting the urge to grab the shotgun always strapped to his back when he wasn't holding it. To be honest, the guy had way too strong of an attachment to that weapon. Grif was surprised he hadn't given the fucking thing a name yet.

"Grif," the man said his name in a rough-sounding voice, grimacing somewhat as if even addressing the younger man directly by name offended him horribly, "Did ya get any of that, dirt bag?"

Okay, so he was referring to the boring report meeting they'd just gone through like they did _every_ morning. He was somewhat surprised that Sarge kept asking him that same question everyday, given how he must know what his response would be by now.

"No, not really."

Sarge mumbled incoherently and then he was suddenly holding the shotgun. Grif raised an eyebrow.

"Dangnabit, Grif! Why do you even bother showing up for these things?"

"One: because you try shooting me when I skip out on them. Two: because there's free food."

"…Don't forget about the juice bar!" a blond-haired young man with an almost perpetually blank look in his blue eyes supplied helpfully from the background.

"Thanks, Caboose." Grif shrugged and turned back to Sarge, "Three: there's also a juice bar."

Tucker scoffed next to him, "Yeah, some bar. It only has one kind of juice."

"I like orange juice the best." Caboose interjected again.

Grif's friend sighed, "Shut up, Caboose."

The grimace on Sarge's face became even more pronounced during their exchange, "You need to at least attempt to take this seriously."

Grif frowned, not quite sure how to respond to that.

It wasn't like he didn't know how serious this whole thing was. Far from it. He'd been there when Above Ground took their retaliation on those Insurrection assholes out on The Slums. Hell, he still had nightmares about all of the screaming he'd heard and sometimes he would wake up feeling like fire and smoke were still stealing the air from his very lungs.

He hated those assholes for it and he hated those Insurrection dicks even more. Fortunately for them, he supposed, that they'd all pretty much died in their initial assaults on Above Ground three years ago.

Now it was just left up to the poor bastards stuck down here to deal with the aftermath of their stupidity.

But, admitting that especially to someone who had pretty much forced him to face that reality head-on when he hadn't wanted to, well, that was pretty much impossible.

So Grif did what he did best in this type of situation. He pretended he really didn't give a fuck.

"Well, maybe if there was anything actually new or vital in these reports…"

While they'd been talking, a dark-skinned woman in tan and cobalt armor walked over to them. Any remark Sarge may have had for Grif in response to his comment died away as he hastily saluted her.

Vanessa Kimball, de facto leader of what little remained of The Slums' Resistance groups after Above Ground's purge, ignored the gesture and regarded all three of them tiredly.

"Another problem?" she asked.

From the look on her face, she already knew what was going on. She confirmed it by cutting off any comments from Grif or Sarge.

"You're right, Grif. This information is dated and we haven't been able to gain any new intel from reconnaissance for quite awhile. There is very little reason to keep having these meetings." Before he could look triumphantly at the older man though, she continued, "However, some of our troops need a sense of routine and normalcy to keep them going. The least we can do for them is this much."

Couldn't really argue with that logic. He nodded his head in understanding.

"Although part of that routine now evidently includes a pool to see how long it will take for a certain fighter in orange to tune the entire thing out." She smiled in amused exasperation, "And just how long it will take before Sarge shoots him for it."

Sarge grinned at this line of thought, "Can I place a bet then?" he asked, lining the orange-armored soldier in his sights and chuckling.

Grif groaned, "Just kill me."

"Grif, weren't you even paying attention? That was the whole point, dirt bag!"

* * *

If someone had told him a couple years ago that Dexter Grif would find himself as a soldier in the Resistance, Grif would have probably laughed his ass off and asked for whatever it was that they had been smoking.

Seriously, he didn't have the energy or time for that bullshit. He didn't want to shoot a gun or get shot at. He didn't want to leave Kai behind all on her own if something happened. He had worked his whole life just to ensure that they had an existence that was somewhat decent: one where they were provided for but he could also nap all he wanted too.

It seemed pointless to throw that all away on a situation that wasn't going to change, for a cause that would likely lead to a painful death and potentially just piss off a military with no qualms about killing teenage civilians they came across either.

But then those stupid Insurrection assholes went ahead and made their move. Grif wasn't even sure how they had managed to sneak past the security gates into Above Ground. No one really knew, truthfully. The group had been pretty damn secretive even amongst other Resistance cells. They had set their explosives and charges, and people lost a whole lot more than just their power for awhile. From what he gathered, the collateral damage had been pretty high and there were several deaths.

He tried not to think about Simmons when he had heard that. Hell, he tried not thinking about Simmons at all anymore.

Kind of made him even _less_ eager to be in this damn war if he thought of the possibility that he might see his friend on the other side of a rifle barrel. Even if said friend had been kind of a dick and left like he had without saying anything.

Retaliation from Above Ground was, as could be expected, swift and brutal. It was easier for them to make it down to The Slums from the surface because they were the ones who held all of the security clearances for the gates.

They had made it clear who was to blame for what had happened in the reports they broadcasted through the information networks in The Slums, but apparently identifying the Insurrection as the culprits wasn't going to stop Above Ground from taking out their anger on the general populace.

Grif had been there on Level One when they had started setting things on fire. He could still hear the screams from people trapped there, burning with the junk around them. Could still feel the heat searing his skin and the smoke burning his eyes and lungs as he somehow managed to dodge for cover and crawl through a small ventilation duct to the relative safety of the mining tunnels beyond.

To this day, he still had to fight a gagging urge when it came to smelling smoke.

He'd been lucky though, he supposed. A lot of people who had been on Level One at the same time weren't.

Tucker's mom, for one.

Kai had cried so much when she had found out and Grif had felt awful when he later learned she had been visiting friends who had just been relocated to the new housing there.

He wasn't sure what he could have done, really, given how quickly things had happened and with so many soldiers there with weapons drawn. But if he'd been able to get to her, then maybe he could have…

"_Just fucking don't." Tucker had told him when he'd expressed those thoughts, his voice raw and eyes red, "We both know there wasn't a damn thing either of us could do."_

_Then Grif had looked at the blood, dirt, and soot covering his friend's clothes and that was still embedded underneath his fingernails and in his hair. He knew Tucker had tried clawing his way through a sealed-off tunnel from Level Two when he had heard about the attack- and so he left it at that._

Tucker retreated into himself for a good long while afterwards. He laughed and joked and flirted like always, but it was obvious from the look in his brown eyes when he didn't think anyone was looking just how much of that was a distraction so he wouldn't have to dwell on what had happened.

Grif would have killed those Insurrection assholes himself if they hadn't already been killed off by then by the Above Grounders.

Naturally, things couldn't really go back to normal after something of that magnitude. People mourned those that were lost and how all of the work that had gone into making Level One the ideal place to be in The Slums was gone, and the Above Ground presence lingered even more over everything like an ominous cloud: _"Look at what we'll do if even one of you pisses us off!"_

It was a long, long while before most people (Grif included) ever even ventured back to Level One. He never even thought of going to his secret ultimate napping spot after that, terrified now of what he would see when he looked down.

_Maybe down there was where he'd always belonged and the scared little kid he'd been before had just been deluding himself._

And yet, despite the added surveillance and security from Above Ground to monitor the situation in The Slums more carefully, despite the physical and mental repercussions from what happened there still permeating the very air everyone breathed- some people still wanted to fight.

The Resistance factions, only loosely organized before and largely peaceful beyond select groups like the Insurrection, all banded together: becoming the new targets of Above Ground's ire once their initial outrage over what had happened dissipated in lieu of the Insurrection's demise and the massacre of Level One. Fighting became commonplace in the mining tunnels and corridors outside of the settlement proper, but it remained localized only to those regions and nowhere else after what had happened at Level One.

He hadn't really understand the reasoning for why the Resistance continued to fight, but now he knew it as a strategy of sorts. They were essentially offering themselves up as scapegoats to divert some of the newly-enforced pressure from Above Ground away from the general populace, to give them a chance to move on without worrying so much about such a tragedy happening again.

Since they weren't invading Above Ground territory or threatening its citizens, The Council seemed content to follow more traditional combat guidelines when dealing with the Resistance fighters. One couldn't help but wonder how long that would last, though.

Grif didn't really get involved with any of that shit until two years later, when both he and Tucker did something kind of really stupid.

A group of people had been harassing a blond-haired young man with big, frightened brown eyes in the park in Level Three with the Warthog (_"Puma"_) statue.

At first, Grif had assumed that it was because the guy was wearing what was obviously a pink shirt, which most guys would have avoided wearing for that very reason. Well, even if he would probably make fun of someone himself for that kind of a fashion statement if he knew them personally and they could take it, threatening them and physically harming someone over that sort of thing was not fucking cool. At all.

So when one of the men threw a punch at the kid, Grif was there with one of his own and Tucker was right there behind him.

It wasn't until after the group of six were down for the count and a crazy old man in red raced over to them, yelling and waving a shotgun in the air that they figured out the real reason the blonde had been harassed.

It turned out that the two of them had just unwittingly helped out a member of the Resistance. Resistance members often tried to keep their identities as such secret for that very reason: not only would they be in trouble if Above Ground found out, but there were some Slum residents who blamed the Resistance as a whole for what the Insurrection had done and didn't actually take too kindly to them either.

The old man, a soldier of some kind by his build and attitude, though Grif suspected he'd maybe seen one too many fights given how insane most of his viewpoints were, introduced himself simply as Sarge. Whether or not that was his actual real name or he still just wanted to be identified as a Sergeant, no one knew for sure. …Sarge subsequently then forced the two young men by gunpoint to meet the new leader of the Resistance forces, the blonde in the pink shirt following close behind with a literal _skip_ in his step.

Grif wasn't sure which one of them he hated more at that point, though he wagered it was probably Sarge since the younger fighter was just insufferably annoying with his way-too-perky-for-the-situation attitude and wasn't actually threatening him with a potential gunshot wound.

It was under those strange circumstances that they ended up meeting Vanessa Kimball.

The woman looked them both over carefully as Chipper Blonde and Sarge filled her in on what had happened. She pointedly ignored the suggestive wink Tucker sent her way and Grif once again marveled at his friend's innate ability to somehow not get shot for inappropriate flirting, especially when someone like Sarge was hovering around Kimball with his shotgun, harrumphing at everything and almost acting like she was his long-lost daughter- which she was also decidedly ignoring.

He hadn't really known what to make of the encounter until she asked why the two of them were there.

"_Why, isn't it obvious?" the old man puffed out his chest triumphantly, "They might not look like much, but they roughed up those fellas botherin' Donut pretty fierce. Figured they could at least fill in body space around here."_

"_We do need every available man we can get, ma'am." Chipper Blonde, whose real name apparently was the inconceivably unfortunate one of Donut, said, "…And how!"_

_Both Tucker and Grif ignored that odd commentary, the train end of the conversation having taken a decidedly not ideal turn for them._

"_What?" Tucker beat his friend to the punch first, "No fucking way!"_

_Sarge's eyes narrowed in anger, "And why in the Sam Hill not?"_

"_Because _someone_ brought us here at gunpoint, for starters." Grif chimed in, "And if you'd told us why you were doing that in the first place we would have said 'No.' to begin with and everyone could have saved themselves some trouble."_

_Kimball sighed wearily, glancing over at the grumbling old man who was now refusing to look her in the eyes._

"…_Again?" she asked him._

"_Wow, you mean he's done this before?" Tucker let out a low whistle, "No wonder you guys are fucked when it comes to recruiting."_

_Sarge huffed, but said nothing. He probably knew he couldn't argue with that, especially with his faction's leader all but having confirmed it moments ago. Or he was just regretting that he hadn't shot Tucker earlier when he'd noticed him winking at Kimball._

_The woman turned to both of them with an apologetic look in her brown eyes, "I'm sorry for the trouble. Sarge is enthusiastic when it comes to the Resistance."_

_Grif scoffed, _'That's putting it fucking mildly.' _He thought if that was the senile fighter's way of trying to get people to join the fight._

"_I need to discuss some important issues with him as a result of that, however." She motioned to what appeared to be something of a mess hall further down the corridor, "Donut can help you with anything you might need, so why don't you get comfortable?"_

_And with that, she turned briskly and marched off in the opposite direction, Sarge muttering behind her. Her body language was tense, through and through._

_Donut started chattering away in a friendly manner the second his two apparent seniors were gone, though Tucker and Grif both tuned him out to look at each other._

_Neither one of them had failed to notice that, despite her quick apology for Sarge's actions, that the woman named Vanessa Kimball hadn't dismissed them outright just then._

* * *

"_Your name is Dexter Grif, correct?"_

_Grif started, having dozed off to sleep in the chair he'd sat in after Donut had left him alone. He could still nap like a pro even in a bizarre situation like this._

_Kimball was looking down at him with a friendly, almost sympathetic look on her face. She had two mugs of what appeared to be coffee in her hands, one of the steaming beverages held out towards him as though it were some sort of peace offering._

_He took it, groggily, glancing around to see if he could figure out what time it was. Unlike in The Slums proper, there was no cyclic lighting in the mines to signify day and night patterns: lighting was on all the time unless there were problems in the wiring or someone turned it off manually. It was somewhat dimmer in general though, thus why a lot of moveable auxiliary lighting was often used in combination with it, which always gave him the impression of it being later than it usually was._

_No wonder being in the tunnels drained him so much._

_Kimball seemed to be able to read his body language and the way his eyes flicked around the space, "It's been two hours since Sarge forced you both to come here."_

"_Uh."_

_She looked embarrassed, "Sorry it took so long to get back to you."_

_He took a sip of the coffee. It tasted horribly bitter, but at least it was hot._

"_It's terrible, but I'm addicted to the stuff now." She supplied helpfully after seeing his expression. It looked like she probably drank it all the time just to stay awake if the dark circles under her eyes were any indication._

"_How'd you know my name?" he asked as his faculties finally started lining up again, "I don't remember that Sarge guy ever bothering to ask."_

"_Your friend Tucker told me." She sat down across from him and was staring at her mug resting on the table surface intently, "We had a chat earlier."_

_Speaking of Tucker… Grif glanced around the makeshift mess hall, but couldn't see his friend anywhere. The place was nearly deserted: there were only a few Resistance fighters milling about aside from Donut who was still practically skipping to and fro out of the corner of his eyes._

_Beyond Donut, who he swore if they could probably find a way to bottle some of his excess perkiness then caffeine sales would probably drop, there was a very obvious fatigue running through the people here. It made sense, he supposed, given all that they were going up against._

_It certainly made it harder to converse with Kimball though, realizing that. The exhaustion on her face was practically palpable and looked even worse than what he saw in her troops._

"_Tucker wanted some time alone." Kimball seemed to be trying to choose her words carefully, "He asked if I could speak to you first."_

_And just like that, the wheels turned. Grif forced himself to look her in the eyes and see the pointed seriousness in them._

_There could only be one reason Tucker would do something like that. Suddenly, that lost and sad expression that he had seen in his friend's eyes ever since his mother had been killed filled his head with a vicious sort of clarity._

"_He signed up."_

_It wasn't a question, it was a statement. He didn't really need to even see Kimball's nod of affirmation to confirm it._

'That fucking asshole. He's going to get himself killed!'

"_It's his decision, Grif, even if you're upset with it." Kimball reached out to grasp her coffee mug between both hands, "All of us who sign up for the Resistance know exactly what we're getting into. We just have our own reasons for doing so."_

_He let out a strangled kind of noise, almost like laughter that he'd choked back on, "Oh, believe me, I have a pretty good idea what his reasoning is. Still doesn't mean I won't deck him for it."_

_She smiled grimly, "Good. Perhaps that will give him a little more time to think things over and really be sure this is what he wants to do."_

_Well, at least she didn't threaten to shoot his ass for threatening a new soldier to the cause. He was sort of surprised by that, truthfully._

"_So, why talk to me about any of this though?"_

_Kimball sighed, "While I don't agree with Sarge's methods when it comes to potential candidates, I can't deny that our numbers are lessening by the day and we're in desperate need of more fighters in general."_

_Grif sipped his coffee since it seemed like she had more to say. He knew what the lead-up was heading towards and how he would respond besides._

"_You both showed a lot of potential by helping Donut as you did and I thank you for that." She paused, raising her mug to her lips and regarding him carefully over its rim, "So I am asking you officially as the leader of the Resistance for your help."_

_He frowned, "Listen, lady, I respect what your group is trying to do here." And he did, truly, because, let's face it, Above Ground was populated by a bunch of heartless dicks and it took a whole lot more balls than he would ever have to intentionally seek out their attention to keep them away from other people, "And I understand why Tucker joined. I think he's a suicidal fucktard and I'll tell him that the next time I see him, but I understand it."_

_Now she was the one waiting patiently for him to finish._

"_But if you think I'm going to get myself killed in some pointless fighting, you can just think again."_

_He stood up from the table then and turned to leave. Maybe he could find Tucker now and give the idiot a piece of his mind for good measure._

"_You're raising your little sister all by yourself, aren't you?"_

_Kimball's voice when she spoke up was soft and he'd barely heard it. He whipped his head around, prepared to yell at her for dragging Kai into her argument and wanting so much more now to find Tucker and smack him upside the head for being a blabbermouth on top of an idiot to boot, but the genuine sympathy and thoughtfulness in her gaze made him stop in his tracks._

"_Having that kind of responsibility…" she paused, gripping her mug again as if for warmth, "I can understand why you wouldn't want to get involved with us. And why Tucker would, given what happened."_

_He said nothing and Kimball's gaze and tone were both even when she continued once more: "Don't you want to ensure that you're in the best possible position to protect her though, if Above Ground decides to change their stance on The Slums once more?"_

_And with that, she fell silent and drank her coffee again._

_Grif left, unnerved somewhat by the effect her words had on him, by the doubt that suddenly started to creep into his resolve to not get involved._

It probably wasn't too surprising then that he signed up himself for the Resistance two weeks later.

Though he did still punch Tucker the next time he saw him and called him a dumbass.

Tucker's only response was to grin and give him the finger. They both acknowledged how stupid they were being, but at least they'd be idiots together for what little it was worth.

* * *

"Are you sleeping _again_, fat ass?"

Tucker's comment elicited a yawn from his friend and an upraised middle finger, which was promptly grasped by a tiny hand with only four long digits.

"Blargh!" a small voice cried near his face.

_That_ got Grif's attention. His brown eyes opened quickly from his dream-reminiscence. It seemed horribly dumb to recap all the shit he already knew instead of dreaming about beer or Old Earth animals like dinosaurs or something else more entertaining in general, but what could he do? It probably was a sign he shouldn't eat snack cakes he found on the floor anymore, even if they'd had very little dirt on them and still tasted good. He nearly jumped up from his napping spot in the back of an old mining shaft not having expected the teal and blue creature's presence.

"Jesus, Tucker! You brought your kid?"

His friend frowned, looking down at the alien child with a guilty expression on his face, "I had to. Kai's off doing something and no one else I know wants to babysit. Except Donut, but since he's here…" he shrugged and let his sentence just trail off.

"So it's Take Your Alien Kid to Work Day?" he joked, because, really, the only way Grif knew how to deal with that fucked up situation was through joking.

How does one generally go about processing that the resistance group you joined found what was probably the only surviving alien on the planet which somehow led to your friend having a magic glowing energy sword of some sort of sacred alien origin imprint on him, only for said surviving male alien to impregnate that friend without saying anything (_that anyone could understand, at any rate_) and subsequently get killed by Above Grounders because for whatever reason they decided surviving aliens should be killed instead of studied?

He was pretty sure there was no code or protocol for that kind of shit in proper military channels. Or even any afterschool specials on the topic from Old Earth. Or greeting cards, because Donut had to make his own for the occasion: a little too glittery for Tucker's taste, but the kid's heart was in the right place.

"It is probably better than Take Your Teenaged Sister to Work Day was for you, isn't it?"

Leave it to Tucker though to take it all in stride. In actuality, he wasn't that bad of a parent when all was said and done: it was obvious he loved Junior and vice-versa, and that was all that really counted in Grif's book.

"Thanks for the reminder." Grif groaned, wishing he could wipe that memory clean from his brain one day.

After that whole fiasco, he'd pretty much forbidden Kai to go anywhere near the tunnels. Which subsequently led to her usual "You suck!" exchange, though she got over it quickly enough since the one thing Kaikaina excelled at was being able to have fun anywhere. Grif just wished her idea of fun didn't always result in police visits and headaches for him in particular later on down the road.

"You know me, always happy to put things in perspective."

Grif groaned again and stood up, deciding it was best to not comment on that _or_ think about what his little sister was doing that meant she didn't want the extra babysitting money Tucker gave her for watching Junior. Kai was pretty self-sufficient now for all of her wild ways, so he knew she could take care of herself in most situations, but the "wild ways" portion of that last sentence would still always worry him.

"Is there a reason you were interrupting my naptime or did you just want to talk?" he looked down at Junior, who was twisting his head from side to side, looking at the exchange, "You know I'm not the best with kids."

No, he had done an okay job raising Kai but that was only because he'd sort of had to. Given how she acted sometimes he knew a lot of people would say he hadn't done a great job of it, but she was happy and healthy, and knew how to look after herself when push came to shove even if her common sense was next to nil. Plus, she was way more properly adjusted than most people who grew up in their situation would be, so those assholes could shove it.

Tucker scoffed, "The last thing I need is for him to be on an all-cookie diet. He's hyper enough as it is!"

"Blargh!" Junior enthusiastically agreed, his little jump proving his father's (_mother's?_ Grif wasn't honestly sure how you would classify Tucker to Junior given the how bizarre his birth was) point fairly well.

"It's a perfectly healthy eating style."

"Please, I'm amazed you can even walk in that armor without breaking into a sweat."

Okay, well, he actually couldn't walk in his armor without breaking into a sweat, but Grif figured it probably wouldn't be helpful to let Tucker know that.

It wasn't like he wasn't getting better though. He could move a lot farther now without totally getting winded, which he supposed was sort of a win. At least the one thing fighting in this damn war did was help him stay a little more fit, which meant he could eat his fill of unhealthy food. Not that he wouldn't have done it anyways, but at least he could do it without as much guilt- he was a guilt eater on top of it all too, so it really was something of a vicious, ironic cycle.

Well, he assumed it was "ironic" at any rate: he had never quite figured out what that word really meant.

"Donut was looking for you."

He sighed, "Of course he was."

Leave it to fate that he ended up getting put in a squad under the direct command of Sarge and with Donut.

Truthfully, he didn't have too many issues with Donut. He was actually a pretty nice guy who tried to get along with everyone, but his cheerfulness could be a bit over-the-top and his can-do attitude wasn't the most fitting for Grif's general can't-really-be-bothered-to-do-anything one. It just generally meant Grif had a hard time being in the same room with him for more than ten minutes because of that.

"Would you rather have my teammate?" Tucker joked.

Grif let out another sigh again. He did suppose having Donut as a teammate was slightly better than having Caboose for one.

At least Donut could aim and his throwing arm was incredible: just don't get him started on his "tosses" and you'd be fine. Caboose, well, beyond being harmless for the most part as well as clueless, had the nasty habit of somehow causing machinery to inexplicably catch on fire just by touching it or inadvertently somehow shooting his teammates whenever he _did_ try to help.

Grif wasn't quite sure why he had decided to join the Resistance, beyond Caboose's recollection of the "nice lady" (Kimball) helping him out when he'd had nowhere to go.

From what they could gather, Caboose was actually one of the people often dubbed "Throwaways": a former citizen of Above Ground that was exiled into The Slums for whatever reason. From the childlike way Michael J. Caboose acted, Grif supposed there wasn't room for him amongst the "elite, productive" thinkers.

It was kind of depressing to think on that though, so he didn't. At least Kimball had decided to be nice to the poor kid and give him some semblance of a home away from any large pieces of construction equipment in the settlement proper he could catch on fire.

"Did Donut say what he wanted?" he asked, hoping it wasn't that Sarge had tasked Donut with finding him for some inane assignment. Usually those involved having an excuse to get Grif into a position to get shot at, which he wasn't too keen on.

"No clue, but he said it was important."

Which could mean that something extremely vital was happening involving Above Ground activities in the tunnels or that Donut's new paint swatches had just come in: _"Come on, Grif, I know we're living in tunnels and caves right now, but the right color accent can really brighten things up!"_

Fuck it.

He let out another sigh, turning to exit the tunnels and sort of hoping it was more on the interior design side of the spectrum.

* * *

"Oh, good, you found him!" Donut's cheerful voice seemed audible no matter how far away from someone he actually was.

In this case, it was from across the mess hall and Grif had to wince at the loud greeting which was followed by Donut waving his arm enthusiastically over his head as if there was any chance that they would miss someone wearing pink armor like he was. Already he was drawing massive amounts of attention from everyone in the room.

One of whom was a woman with red hair cropped just above her shoulders and a face that was either usually expressionless (_seriously, it was almost as if someone was talking to a mannequin at times_) or extremely pissed off, that he _really_ hoped wouldn't approach them.

"I mean, I would have thought I could have found him first in whatever hole he was hiding away in." Donut seemed oblivious to the attention he was receiving, all too happy to chat away, "I am an expert when it comes to looking into holes, you know."

Grif groaned, "Donut, we talked about this before, remember? What did I tell you?"

"Um," the younger soldier paused, face scrunched up in thought, "That I should always stop talking a sentence before I usually do?"

"Yes. Or try not talking at all." He could already hear the snickering starting up.

"Aw, but that's no fun! How would you know what I'm going to say then?"

"He has a point there." Tucker chimed in, looking amused at the exasperated look on his friend's face, "How _would_ we know?"

"Thanks, Tucker! I always know you're behind me!"

Tucker's expression changed from amusement at Grif's reaction to Donut's innocent innuendo habit to being a little put off at it being directed at him, "Then again, silence _is_ golden."

"So, what did you need, Donut? Did Sarge want me for one of his suicidal strategies again?"

Seriously, he knew that there was talk about how Sarge had apparently served in the Above Ground military before showing up down here, but Grif sort of had his doubts about that after the fifteenth "have Grif run out onto the battlefield and draw enemy fire for twenty minutes or so until they're out of ammo" strategy he'd come up with.

Unless Sarge had been shipped down to The Slums because he was insane. He supposed he could buy that take on the theory, if nothing else.

Franklin Delano Donut frowned and looked suddenly very sheepish, avoiding Grif's gaze.

In a lot of ways, Grif supposed he could almost look at his relationship with Donut now in a similar way to the one he had with his sister. It didn't hurt that Donut was only one or two years older than Kai and probably even more girly. Grif liked him well enough, he just often found himself horribly annoyed and exasperated by some of the things Donut said and did in the same way he often felt with Kai.

It had helped lessen his annoyance somewhat early on in their forced comradeship under Sarge's command that he found out the reason as to why such a generally easy-going nice guy like Donut had gotten involved in the fighting: he had grown up in a somewhat comfortable, very loving and accepting home in Level Two. As a result of the proximity of the levels, he'd lost several people he cared about during Above Ground's retaliation raid. Knowing that had helped Grif's disposition soften towards him.

"This isn't about something Sarge wants or paint swatches, is it?"

Before Donut could respond, a harsh-sounding voice cut in, "Afraid not. I asked him to get you."

The red-haired woman he'd been afraid to even look at earlier glanced disinterestedly at both him and Tucker when she moved closer, "Both of you morons, actually."

"Oh, fuck me." Tucker muttered under his breath.

Grif's hands instinctively went to protectively shield his balls at her sudden proximity, although he didn't know why. It wasn't like the fucking cone had done anything to shield them the last time so what would his hands do?

"Tucker, not in front of the b-a-b-y!" Donut admonished, putting his hands over where he thought Junior's ears would be on the sides of his oddly shaped head.

"What does spelling out 'baby' do, exactly?" Grif asked him in mild confusion.

"Yeah, besides, that little guy is Tucker's kid." A tan-armored man joined the exchange, his one good eye looking highly amused, "I bet he's heard a hell of a lot worse than that growing up!"

"And how!" Tucker frowned a moment later, suddenly getting what he'd just said, "Hey, wait!"

Junior decided it was his turn to get his two cents in at this point, "Bow-chicka-honk-honk!"

His father (_mother?_) sighed, "You're so not helping, Junior."

The woman in black waited through this exchange with a surprising amount of patience for her. However, she apparently thought Tucker's final comment was a good stopping point.

"Don't encourage them, York." She said pointedly to the brown-haired man before turning back to Tucker and Grif, "Are you both done?"

Tex, formerly known as Agent Texas and apparently a big badass extraordinaire super soldier from some really fucking high-end military program in Above Ground called Freelancer, was, generally speaking, not someone you wanted to piss off. …Or even look at, lest she take it as some form of a challenge.

She and two other Freelancers had shown up at the doors of the Resistance shortly after Grif and Tucker had joined. All three were injured and looking like they'd been through hell to get there. One of them, a man in violet armor called North, had been the worse off: someone had shot him from behind and he'd been on the verge of bleeding out. Tex had literally been carrying him across her shoulders.

They were strangers wearing Above Ground military equipment. Yes, all of the Resistance fightrs wore it too but theirs were cobbled together from whatever was salvageable after a battle. Grif really didn't want to dwell on how so much of his equipment was pilfered from dead people. The three Above Grounders were bound to not get a friendly welcome at first.

…Which resulted in Agent Texas handing off care of their more injured comrade to the man in the tan armor, York, and subsequently kicking the asses of several platoons before Kimball was able to properly get the situation under control.

Since Tex was well and properly ticked off by that point a flirtatious remark from Tucker afterwards had gotten him slammed into a metal wall and a comment from Grif about needing to learn to chill had resulted in a still very-painful-to-remember punch to the balls.

Sarge had made an almost awe-sounding comment about how she must be some strange combination of man, an Old Earth animal called a shark, and some sort of cyber-shark.

It was one of the few comments from the old man that Grif was inclined to agree with.

Ever since then, his instinctive reaction to Tex seemed to always mildly amuse the woman if nothing else.

So it made sense, then, that when the three ex-Freelancers wanted to sign up for the Resistance there were no protests despite the wariness on whether or not they could be trusted completely. Apparently, whatever they'd discussed in private with Kimball and Sarge seemed to convince the two leaders that they were genuine at least, though what that was exactly no one else really knew.

Both York and North seemed pretty decent and easygoing besides, ingratiating themselves pretty well with everyone once they had joined up and North was healed. Their combat skills, while not on the same level as Tex's, were nothing to sneeze at either: well above and beyond what most of the soldiers in the Resistance were capable of. Well, as much as people with no military background to speak of could even be considered soldiers. Even with the fact that North never fully recovered from his injury and he'd lament how he couldn't move around as quickly as he used to with a wry self-deprecating smile on his face, his skills as a sniper were still second-to-none.

Tex, on the other hand, generally remained unapproachable and most gave her a wide berth. She got along well enough with Kimball it seemed, and with York and North given their shared past (he supposed choosing to defect like they did for whatever reason would cause a sort of kinship to form between people), but she usually only tolerated everyone else- and not for too long if they tried her patience.

But the three of them joining up had definitely helped the fighting in the corridors be less one-sided than it had been before, something Grif was grateful for.

"Your teammate went missing in Tunnel 32-A a few hours ago." Tex informed Tucker.

He looked nonplussed, "Caboose? He wanders off all the time. He'll be back. He probably thought he found something shiny."

"32-A had been used to house some very high-grade military tech from Above Ground when they came through here during the last mining skirmishes over twenty years ago."

Tucker's face paled slightly and he exchanged a look with Grif.

Caboose plus heavy machine or tech of any kind generally resulted in an inferno of some kind. Even Donut had long since stopped trying to teach him how to use the stove. He had cried at the thought of having to pencil in his eyebrows until they finally grew back.

"If you're so worried about this, why not tell Kimball? Or go find him yourself?"

Tex fixed Grif with an icy glare, causing him to let out a small "Eep!" and shield his crotch again.

Instead of retaliating, she let out a tired sigh, "Kimball has enough on her damn plate trying to keep you idiots alive as it is. And Caboose is scared of me." She almost smiled slightly at that, "He calls me the 'mean lady' and refuses to get anywhere near me."

"Gee, I wonder why." Tucker muttered under his breath.

Grif moved away from him slightly and Donut did the same while gripping Junior's hand to push him along too just in case Tex decided to react to that comment.

Thankfully for Tucker, Tex ignored his sarcasm this time. That sort of proved just how serious she was treating this matter.

"But he trusts you morons, so I figured you'd be my best bets to get him out of there without incident."

"And preferably without getting anyone barbecued." Grif filled in.

She nodded, "That too."

"Sarge's robot is already standing watch at the tunnel's entrance in case something happens." York told them.

So, Lopez was involved too.

Lopez was a humanoid robot Sarge had built for…well, whatever reason it was that Sarge decided to do anything. He was an efficient worker whenever he did stuff, but Sarge had somehow "ingeniously" programmed him to speak a language called Spanish that no one here could speak or understand save Donut, apparently, but he wasn't sure his translations were horribly accurate.

Lopez seemed about as keen on his creator as Grif was, though, so Grif sort of suspected his involvement didn't come so much from concern for the situation as it did probably from having an excuse to be away from Sarge.

Not that Grif could blame him on that front, and while he honestly would prefer doing nothing instead himself, he supposed this would be better than if Sarge had him doing some hare-brained scheme involving grenade-catching again.

And, generally speaking, it was probably just smarter in the long run to agree to do whatever Tex wanted for your own health.

"What about Junior, though?" it seemed Tucker had the same thought, but understandably he wasn't as keen on bringing his kid into a potential danger zone, especially not with Caboose there.

York patted his shoulder understandably, "Don't worry, we'll drop the little guy off with North before we head out." He shared a look with Tex, an odd expression clouding over his face, "He's great with kids."

* * *

The entrance to Tunnel 32-A was in a myriad maze of mining tunnels and corridors even farther away from The Slums proper than the tunnels and shafts that served as the makeshift base for the Resistance were.

Grif was honestly surprised that Caboose would wander this far on his own or that Tex even knew about it in the first place. Judging from the expression on her face, though, asking her to elaborate on the situation would probably result in either silence or a face-slam into the ground.

Better not to risk it.

Eventually, the brown-colored armor belonging to the robotic Lopez came into view. He turned around to face them.

"Oh, bueno. Más de ti." _{"Oh, good. More of you."} _His voice had a filtered, monotone quality to it.

"Oh, hey, Lopez!" Donut waved cheerfully, "What's up?"

"Oh, Dios, que tenía que llevar el rosa con usted." _{"Oh, God, you had to bring the pink one with you."}_

He couldn't be positive, but Grif was almost certain the robot had groaned- or whatever it was robots did that was the mechanical equivalent of a groan.

"It _is_ a fine day, isn't it? Perfect for an adventure."

"Te lo ruego: por favor dejar de hablar a mí." _{"I am begging you: please stop talking to me."}_

Tex marched right past Lopez, ignoring the talk, more like miscommunication, between Donut and him. She peered out into the dim recess of the tunnels beyond, a frown on her face.

"Doesn't seem like he's returned."

"But there's no smoke and no one's shouting 'Tucker did it!' yet, so that's good, right?" Tucker tried lightening the mood.

"Unless he got injured somewhere." York frowned, "Who knows if parts of this tunnel are all that stable?"

"And we still have to go in there after him, huh?" Grif frowned himself, jumping slightly at any imaginary change in the shadows filtering through the place.

"There aren't any bats, fat ass." Tucker scoffed at him, earning a _shut your fucking mouth_ glare from his friend.

"Let's move before he does something stupid and gets himself killed."

With that cheery thought, Tex strode forward and into 32-A. York sighed, shot sympathetic looks to the others, and shrugged before following after her.

"Si ninguno de ustedes vuelva, yo no estoy diciendo a nadie." _{"If none of you come back, I'm not telling anyone."}_

"Thanks for the pep-talk, Lopez!"

"En serio, sólo tiene que ir ya." _{"Seriously, just go already."}_

* * *

"I'm just saying, what's the worst that could be down here?"

York seemed to be mentally ticking things off from a list in his head in response to Tucker's question, "Oh, lots of things: weapons, explosives, giant mechs-"

"Which would all be bad if Caboose got his hands on them." The teal-armored soldier finished, hand subconsciously going to the sword hilt at his side as it often did now whenever he was feeling nervous.

A pause and then the former Freelancer smiled slightly, "Yes, Tucker, that would be very bad."

"So why didn't the Above Grounders take this shit out of here with them when they left or disable it somehow? Or try to seal the goddamned tunnel?"

Tex answered from further up ahead, "There were complications in the last skirmish."

Grif raised an eyebrow, "You mean from bombing unarmed miners?" he asked incredulously.

She sighed, "Records are classified from that time, but the miner protests really weren't the main reason the army moved in. It was just a convenient excuse and a chance for some assholes to flex their muscles."

"So what was the actual reason all those people died then?" Donut's voice sounded lost and sadder than what was normal for him. Not that Grif could blame him: hearing about the more brutal side to war and politics would leave a bitter taste in anyone's mouth.

She stopped and glanced backwards at Tucker, "That's a nice sword you've got there."

"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" he did not seem pleased at this revelation, "You mean they were a bunch of assholes for some stupid alien relic only one person can even use and they didn't even get it?"

"I'm sure they found lots of interesting things to occupy their time with and to make the whole thing worthwhile in the end, don't worry." She reassured him in a mocking tone, "Why do you think they were so eager to fall back to the surface if their only opposition was a bunch of defenseless Slum dwellers?"

"If that information is classified, how did you find out about it?" Grif wondered just how high up in the food chain that meant Freelancers were.

York seemed to read the real meaning behind his question easily enough, "Believe me, we were told _nothing_ about _anything_ going on behind the scenes with The Council and the military." There was a surprising amount of bitterness in his voice at that for a guy as easy-going and friendly as York tended to be, and he shared yet another secretive look with Tex.

"That information came from a friend." She supplied enigmatically in turn.

"Who?"

It was probably a moot point to ask, but Grif figured 'what the hell?' at this point.

"Someone you don't need to know about."

Well, at least it wasn't a punch to the crotch.

"At any rate, I'm assuming that even though they left in a hurry they no doubt followed standard military protocol and probably tried dismantling or disabling everything they couldn't bring back with them when the order came in."

"But there's always the chance they overlooked something, right?" York concluded for her.

She nodded, "Human error and stupidity have to always be factored in."

"And knowing Caboose's dumb luck, he'll probably stumble upon the one active piece of tech left in the place." Tucker muttered, "Probably blowing us all up with it."

Another nod. Tex was on a roll with interacting with people today.

He sighed, "Fucking great."

Donut wasted no time cupping his hands around his mouth following that and shouting, "Caboose! _Caboose!_ Where are you?"

Grif half-heartedly chimed in with, "Come on out and we'll get you a pony!"

"Dude, you tried that the last couple of times, remember? He's dumb, but he's figured out by now that we don't have ponies here." Tucker told him, "You have to come up with something else to bribe him with."

And, to illustrate his point, he shouted out, "We have crayons!"

There was silence for a long while following that, and the faint lighting in the corridor blinked ominously.

Tex signaled that they should move on, since odds were good Caboose was out of ear range wherever he was.

But then the ground started to noticeably shake and Donut let out a high-pitched shriek when a couple of small rocks became loose from the ceiling and fell on his shoulder.

The others tensed, clasping their helmets on if they already hadn't done so and looking around nervously while bracing for a potential collapse. Armor could keep you alive for awhile if your helmet was on and properly working, but it didn't amount to shit if someone didn't come to dig you out soon enough.

"Crayons! I love to color. I can use them to draw a pony!"

And suddenly Caboose was there, grinning from ear to ear with his blue helmet under his arm.

"Caboose, what the fuck?" Tucker was racing forward with an anxious expression on his face. Tucker said a lot of stuff about Caboose at times in exasperation, but the last thing he wanted to see was his simple-minded teammate get hurt, "This place is going to cave in! Get your helmet on, moron!"

The grin never left Caboose's face, innocent blue eyes regarding Tucker in amusement, "Oh, silly Tucker, that isn't the tunnel. That's just my new best friend coming to say hello!"

_That_ gave Tucker pause and out of the corner of his eye Grif could see Tex bringing out one of her guns. They were used to Caboose not making sense, but this one was on a whole other level.

"New best friend?" Tucker repeated and frowned, "You mean like a dog or something?"

"It would have to be the biggest damn dog I've ever seen." York mumbled, looking a little disconcerted that the shaking was intensifying still and not lessening.

"A dog. Yes!" Caboose's smile brightened even more than one would think was possible considering how wide it had already been to begin with, "That is what he is."

He turned his head back to the darkened space he'd just emerged from, "Come on, Freckles, say hello to everyone!"

Nothing. The shaking suddenly stopped too.

"Oh, he is very shy." Caboose said in way of explanation for this, "Freckles, come here. My friend Pastry will play fetch with you."

Donut perked up at this, no longer fearful himself in light of Caboose's demeanor, "That would be fun! I'm great at tossing!"

York looked over at Grif, "Um, he means throwing things, right?"

"God, I hope so."

Tucker sighed, "Caboose…" he began.

"COMING."

And just as the booming, electrical voice filled the air the slight shaking commenced again and a giant, robotic form seemed to swallow the entirety of space right behind the blue-armored young man.

"Holy shit." York's commentary was to the point, but all too accurate.

And Grif had to kick himself for the first coherent thought flooding into his head again a few moments later being _'I bet Simmons would love to see this thing.'_

Caboose smiled, oblivious to the shocked looks on everyone's faces, "This is Freckles. See, Tucker, now I have a dog too!"

Tucker got over his shock enough to groan, "For the last time, Caboose, Junior isn't my dog. He's my kid! Don't insult family."

Tucker's point seemed lost on Caboose given the blank look that crossed over his face, "Mine can do tricks."

"Oh, for the love of…"

"He can speak too!" Caboose turned back over to the walking metallic death monstrosity, "Freckles, say hello to everyone. They are all nice people, even the mean lady."

York snickered, promptly cutting it off at the glare that earned him from Tex.

"HELLO."

"Do the little dance I taught you, Freckles! It will look so cute once I find you a tiny hat."

Grif sighed, feeling like his brain was about to explode. Maybe it already had and that was why he'd thought about Simmons again after trying so hard _not_ to.

He honestly couldn't tell if he preferred this to an inferno.

Still, it probably beat one of Sarge's "strategies," all in all.

* * *

**Above Ground**

He saw Captain Flowers first, his body mangled and lying broken on the outskirts of the city (_hated that he'd never gotten the chance to ask him _"Why?"_ to so many things_).

Then he saw his mother: lying peacefully in her bed (_hated that he'd been away when it happened, hated that she'd never told him how serious it was, hated how uncaring his father acted in the face of it all_).

Then he saw The Slums _burning_, could make out figures that could have been either Kaikaina or Grif getting dragged and shot (_hated that he would never know for certain what happened to them, hated that he hadn't stayed longer, hated that he still wasn't sure about some things_).

It played on in an endless loop in his head, the newfound pain all over his aching body making it worse.

"Private Simmons!"

No wonder he woke up screaming then, his throat just as raw and bloody as the rest of him felt.

The only thing that kept him from launching himself up from the medical bed was the strong pressure pushing firmly down on his shoulders.

For a minute he panicked, his last thoughts being of _fire_ and _Grif_, not sure of where he was. But the metallic green visor swimming in his line of vision helped him to somewhat clear his thoughts.

"Please do not move around so much. Your body needs time to adjust." Sheila's polite voice informed him.

When she was fairly certain that he was no longer going to be thrashing around, Sheila removed her hands. The robot settled down once more in the chair next to his bedside.

"I know it is not always advisable to rouse patients recovering from surgery, but I was worried you would hurt yourself." She said in way of explanation.

"Th—thanks, Sheila."

There had been many changes in his life since the Insurrection's attack on Above Ground. Some a lot more drastic than others. Captain Flowers' death early on in the fighting that followed with the Resistance (though Simmons was still unsure of how Flowers' body had been found in Above Ground if the records stated that Resistance fighters had killed him, but any of his attempts at inquiring further left nothing but dead ends), his mother's passing and now his surgery being some of the more major ones.

By comparison, the transfer of Sheila the Tank's Virtual Intelligence to a robotic body to provide more support during missions was a fairly minor one, but it still unnerved him all the same. She appeared now to be simply a fully armored soldier like any other (_"gunmetal green and grey" she would always describe her colors as with that "friendly smile" tone to her voice_), though take off the armor and all that was there were wires and circuitry wrapped around a metal skeletal frame. It was a bit odd, to say the least, especially when she spoke without her helmet on.

He'd had issues conversing with her even as a tank as her voice was very feminine and pleasant, which meant his "can't really talk to females without getting flustered" rule had still applied even then, much to his embarrassment. So, at the very least, he supposed that that hadn't gotten any worse. He actually felt somewhat okay with talking to her now, since they'd worked together in one capacity or another over the years.

"You're very welcome." She regarded him for a few moments, as if debating trying to say anything further.

His body hurt. He grimaced, his head pounding and joints aching.

Fuck, and he had seen the charts too: he _knew_ he was on some pretty potent painkillers.

"It's a lot to adjust to, isn't it?"

"Uh-huh." Simmons winced, desperately trying to avoid tearing up. Not only because it would be horribly embarrassing, which it would be, but because his right eye was _burning_ and he didn't know what would happen if he started to cry because of it.

'_Probably nothing, you don't have a tear duct in that eye anymore, remember?'_

Right, but he didn't have lungs anymore either yet his body was still straining itself to draw breath into a nonexistent organ and subsequently going into panic mode at the realization that it couldn't and that that _wasn't normal_.

He didn't have a heart either, but remembering that dream still had him feeling like it was being pulled from his chest all over again.

His limbs, where muscle and bone connected to metal and wiring, were in a special sort of electric agony.

And, because he couldn't think of anything else to say he simply repeated "Uh-huh" again-and-again like an idiot.

"The synthetic epidermal layer over the metallic components looks almost flesh-like." Sheila said in way of conversation, "People will know what happened, but you won't probably get the gawking I do when I strip for maintenance."

"Uh-huh." He knew she was only trying to keep him calm, to keep him from dwelling on the pain and on the _'Oh shit, I've really fucked up'_ line of panicked thinking he was having now.

"May I ask why you agreed to the experiment?"

He paused from his inner turmoil then, not having expected that line of direct questioning. Sheila was staring at him.

"I was merely curious because I was surprised you would volunteer for cybernetic enhancements." She looked down to her hands in her lap, "I agreed to the transfer of my Virtual Intelligence to this body only because I wished to support you and Church in the field and my previous body's size made that problematic at times."

Right, because the "field" in this case meant underground.

"You don't have to answer though, Private Simmons."

"Er…"

What could he say, really? That he'd volunteered because he hadn't been satisfied with his work as a soldier and that he had hoped cybernetic enhancements would help? That he'd done it because the only person who would have probably objected to it had died earlier? That maybe crossing over a barrier and entering a territory where some wouldn't even consider him human anymore (sixty-five percent metal and wire and fake skin: odd to put it into that kind of perspective) was some weird way to distance himself from his grief, from the one living relation he couldn't even look at anymore?

It was hard to put it into words, and now it seemed stupid and childish and _he couldn't take it back_…

Thankfully, the door slid open at that exact moment and saved him from having to respond at all.

He was slightly less thankful to see that the person who stepped inside was Leonard Church, though the early animosity that had shown between them had dissipated to quiet disinterest more or less over the years. He thought it had something to do with Flowers' death, perhaps: Church hadn't been on the team as long as he and Doc had, but he had genuinely seemed to respect their captain. Losing someone they had both admired sort of set up a begrudging rapport between the two of them, if nothing else.

"Is the idiot awake yet?" he asked, knowing damn well he was because he stared directly at Simmons when he said it.

"Wishing I wasn't." Simmons' muttered through gritting teeth.

"Yeah, well, cybernetics hurt like hell. You should've done your research before you volunteered, nerd."

Simmons glared at that, for the first time noticing the dual vision he now had: one was the vision he always had from his perfectly functional green eye, and the other gave a slight red tint to everything- complete even with a soft "glow" around the computers and machinery in the room. Simmons knew the eye had other functions as well and that he could lessen or strengthen the effects as he pleased, he would just have to practice and adjust to the concept later. Sheila practically seemed to have an aura about her.

…As did Church, oddly enough.

It figured: he got a new cybernetic eye and it was already fucking _broken_.

He shook his head to clear his vision, the glow from the electronics lessening as his brain began to adjust to all of the new information it was receiving.

"I knew it would be painful." He said defensively, grimacing at a sudden involuntary twitch in his fingers that sent a wave of fire up his arm, "I just…didn't know it would be this _painful_."

For a split second, there almost seemed to be a slight look of concern on Church's face, but he quickly schooled his expression into his usual one of angry disdain. That was another thing Simmons had learned about Church over the years: he was either always pissed off at the entire world or largely uninterested in it.

"You're alive and it's too late to bitch and moan about it now, right?" he said gruffly, "So just lay down and rest, and hopefully this whole episode won't end up being a goddamned waste of time."

"Church." Sheila's tone was one of warning.

He looked at her nervously. The one thing Simmons still didn't quite get was the odd bond between the two of them. Church seemed much more respectful of Sheila than others. He supposed it had to do with their earlier association, when Sheila had been inside a tank and was capable of leaving him a bloody smear on the ground.

Church sighed slightly and his tone was a bit softer when he spoke again, "Just recover, okay, nerd? With you in here, it's just us and Doc when he's not training and I'd rather have you being an annoying kiss-ass than listen to the guy who refuses to shoot anything in a fucking war."

"Thanks, Church." He was surprised to find that he actually meant it.

"Yeah, well, now I have to go wash this fucking memory off of me." He shuddered and headed back to the door, "Let's go, Sheila, we have a meeting with Carolina."

Sheila stood and nodded slightly to Simmons in goodbye before following Church outside.

Simmons laid there in silence for a good long while, the soft humming of the machinery of the medical unit filling his ears. It seemed louder now then whenever he'd been in here previously.

He tried his hardest to avoid falling asleep again though, preferring the physical pain of being awake to what else lay in store for him in dreams.

* * *

"How are you feeling?"

Simmons blinked, surprised by the bluntness of C.T.'s question.

The two hadn't seen each other for a few weeks and the one time they had run into each other he had been extremely early for a meeting, so he had decided to visit the lounge again where he had first met her and Washington: the view always made him smile wistfully somehow. She didn't beat around the bush.

In a way, he supposed he was grateful for her bluntness. It made it easier to talk to her without being his usual brain-dead self around females.

"Wh-what are you referring to, exactly?"

Okay, well, he _had_ said "easier." He didn't say foolproof.

She pointed directly at his augmented eye, "That. It's only been a few weeks since your surgery, shouldn't you still be resting?"

"Oh." He frowned, "I'm okay. I mean…it doesn't hurt anymore."

Well, that wasn't true. It still hurt quite a bit, just nowhere near as excruciating as it had right after the operation. It actually ached less in general when he moved around more, sleeping was what killed him the most, truthfully, so he had wanted to go back on active duty as quick as possible.

But that would require a lot of words to explain and he didn't really have the energy for it.

She didn't look too convinced, but she let it slide. Instead, she raised a brown eyebrow at the package underneath his arm.

"What's that?"

He looked down and blushed, wishing he'd remembered to return to barracks to store it first, "It's, um…a get-well gift from a friend. Banana nut bread."

Doc was busy with medic training now, having been finally given permission to take a break from active duty to focus fully on it. Whenever he had time still though, he would drop off homemade snacks like that to Simmons if he saw him outside of duty ever since the redhead had his operation. It was nice, though horribly embarrassing all at the same time.

"That's nice." She gave a slight smile, "Too bad I'm allergic to nuts or I'd make you share."

Agent Connecticut sat down at one of the tables, motioning for Simmons to do the same.

She looked extremely tired since he'd seen her last and there was sadness in her eyes all the time now. It wasn't the resentful sadness she'd displayed when they had first met: just a regular, lingering sadness.

"Agent Washington asked about you, you know." She said quietly, "After the surgery."

"He did?" his shock caused his voice to reach a higher octave.

He hadn't actually seen Washington a lot recently, which had been somewhat upsetting considering the young Freelancer had been the second closest person he felt he could call something of a "friend" here beyond Doc. He supposed now too that the list could be extended to include C.T. and Sheila in a way, which was odd to think about considering how he still had trouble talking to them sometimes.

Something bad had apparently happened to him around the same time that the Insurrection attack occurred and when Captain Flowers died, but the details were lost and buried under all sorts of classification codes.

All Simmons really knew about the incident was that Washington had been shipped off to a rehabilitation facility somewhere else in Above Ground for over ten months. When he came back, he was distant and brooding and made it a point to never socialize with anyone for longer than five minutes, acting for all the world as if he expected them to stab him in the back at some point.

Washington wasn't as bad around Simmons, but that was probably more because the timid soldier didn't exactly rank high on anyone's threat scale. He'd say a curt greeting to him in the halls, but would then move on as fast as he could afterwards, looking over his shoulders in a way that had become something of a ritual for him now.

"He doesn't show it anymore, but he still has some kindness in him." She looked regretful but smiled somewhat, "I wish I hadn't been as hard on him back then."

C.T.'s slight smile went from nostalgic tinged with regret to hard-edged in a matter of seconds, "It was Freelancer that did that to him, you know."

He gulped, not entirely sure he wanted to hear this. He knew there was truth to what she said, even if he couldn't say for sure exactly _what_ it was.

"When I see him next time, though, I'll tell him you're doing well. It'll ease some of the worries from him, if nothing else."

Thankfully, she decided to switch tact again instead.

He smiled, somewhat relieved, "Thank you."

"No problem."

A silence stretched between them after that, with a thoughtful, faraway expression crossing over C.T.'s face.

Simmons debated about it for a moment, never quite as good with social protocols as he wanted to be, but somewhat concerned about the redness he saw in the brunette's eyes.

And he decided eventually: fuck it, fair is fair. She'd already asked him herself anyways.

"How are you f-feeling then?"

He wanted to kick himself for his stutter.

She blinked, surprised at the question. Then she smiled slightly, "Better than you physically, I'd wager."

So she _hadn't_ bought his earlier remark. He felt his face flush in embarrassment at having been found out.

She sighed, "I'm just out of it, I think." She looked over at the window, "I'm worried about my friends and upset that I can't do more."

He remained silent at this, because he honestly had no idea of what to say to her.

"And this whole time of year is always depressing to me."

His expression must have asked the question he was far too afraid to ask for fear of intruding on her privacy because her smile turned somewhat sad.

"Someone I cared for a lot," she paused, choosing her next words carefully, "They died awhile ago around this time."

"Oh." It was all he could think to say, though it was largely inadequate.

"I thought it might get easier to deal with, the more time passed…" she shrugged, a wry look on her face, "But with each year it gets worse."

"I'm…" he paused, tried to start again, "I'm sorry."

She shook her head as if to dispel any lingering depressing thoughts from it and gave him a comforting smile, "Well, I know everyone goes through that sort of thing." She gave him a pointed, sympathetic look, "Florida was killed around this time too. And your mother recently passed away, correct?"

He nodded mutely, the lump in his throat suddenly making it hard to say anything.

"Grief can make us do crazy things sometimes. Like volunteering to be a cyborg."

And whatever response he had to that observation flew completely from his head when a red-haired woman in cyan and silver armor stepped into the lounge area. There was an odd, almost miniature human-shaped image floating just above her shoulder, but it quickly flickered from view before any more details could be discerned the second she turned her green eyes on the two people conversing in the area.

"C.T.," her tone was clipped and to the point, "I thought you were off-duty today."

Connecticut stood straight as an arrow in the presence of her commanding officer, "I am. Just figured I'd finish filing some reports before I headed out."

"Get to it then." Agent Carolina left no room for argument or debate.

Connecticut nodded, offering a quick sympathetic smile in Simmons' direction and a comforting pat on the shoulder before moving past Carolina.

Simmons swallowed nervously, trying to fight the sudden urge to vomit.

He very nearly had a fucking heart attack (_never mind that his heart wasn't in his chest anymore_), when the soldier took the spot that had been previously occupied by C.T. across from him.

His fear of Carolina wasn't so much his usual anxiety when it came to dealing with women as it was that she terrified the hell out of him. Agent Carolina was intimidating as _fuck_. Even just sitting there, staring impassively out the window like she was, there was a sharpness about her, a lingering sense that she could (and would, if properly incensed) break every bone in your body before you could even blink.

It took a special sort of elite to be the leader of the Freelancers, after all.

"You're here early, Private Simmons."

He started, surprised at being addressed by her. She hadn't taken her eyes off of the window at all.

"Um…"

Maybe it had something to do with Captain Flowers having been a Freelancer. Maybe it had something to do with Agents York, North, and Tex defecting or with Agent Washington being out of commission for so long and Agent Maine's apparent killed in action status too: other issues he hadn't gotten any details on yet as well. Maybe it was because of the war and being understaffed at the Mother of Invention. Or possibly the people doing all of the paperwork in the military were just really shitty at their jobs.

But for whatever reason, control over Florida's "side-project" had fallen to Agent Carolina at his passing. Which was pretty damn nerve-wracking, all in all, even if she really didn't seem to have much use for them and generally only tolerated the group to go on surveillance missions of very little importance as a result.

On one hand, it was a good way to prove oneself. On the other, well, Simmons really never wanted to experience a tenth of what the Freelancers probably did on a daily basis (_his captain's mangled body, C.T.'s sadness, Washington's curt dismissals that he tried not to take too personally because _something_ had obviously happened even if no one told him what it was_).

So, naturally, he always practically had a panic attack in her presence.

"Church will be late again, most likely." There was an annoyed resignation to her voice. Her green eyes were still fixed on the window.

In the back of his mind, he briefly remembered having heard something about how Church and Carolina were perhaps distantly related somehow. He wondered if that was why the two talked about each other without any mention of rank or title.

He was curious to know if that was actually true or not, but he sure as hell wasn't going to ask Agent Carolina about it and he had a feeling Church would simply tell him point blank that it was "none of his goddamned business" if he ever asked him.

"Er…"

She finally turned to regard him with a blank, assessing look on her face that gave away nothing. Her eyes remained fixed on the visible synthetic skin graft and red eye of his face.

"You were in recovery for your cybernetic enhancement surgery only a few weeks ago." She noted.

He nodded, mind drawing a total blank on vocalizing at the moment.

"I won't ask how you're feeling. You opted for the surgery to improve yourself and you have to work out how to do that on your own." She did tilt her head to him slightly, tone only softening marginally, "Though I do admit, most soldiers aren't nearly as active so soon afterwards."

Holy shit, was that praise? Before his brain could explode from the notion or come up with some weird, convoluted way he could misinterpret it somehow as an insult because he was never that comfortable with praise, she carried on through.

"I have a lot of high hopes that there won't be any negative repercussions from my decision to send the three of you out on the field for your next assignment."

She waited in silence for her words to sink in, eyebrow twitching slightly when it took longer than she seemed to deem necessary for what she said to process through Simmons' mind.

"Y-you mean…?" his throat was dry and he ignored the aches in his body and the odd sudden realization that, by this point, Doc's "get-well gift" was probably just a bag of crumbs under his armpit as he'd forgotten entirely to put it down on the table when he had been talking to C.T. earlier.

Carolina gave a curt nod, "Yes, your team is going underground."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: More character introductions and some more plot points brought up. I experimented a little by finally using two different P.O.V.s in one chapter, which will probably be happening more often in future chapters. I apologize for how rushed the ending to the third chapter was though in comparison! I'll try to avoid doing that again in subsequent chapters and all of those points I mentioned there will definitely be coming back into the story in a big way later on, I promise!

Also, for some reason, in my head canon Kimball looks a lot like Lyndie Greenwood: the actress who plays Jenny Mills in the _Sleepy Hollow_ television show. I'm not sure how that happened, but it did (which is kind of cool because she is awesome and Kimball is awesome!). :D

So, not much to say on this one beyond that the next chapter will finally have a reunion of sorts (haha, took me long enough! XD). Thank you to everyone who has been reading the fic. I hope that this chapter was an enjoyable one!


	5. Chapter 5

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show's characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Chapter Five:

The plan, as he understood it, was a fairly simple one.

According to Carolina, one of the surveillance computers meant to monitor the situation in the tunnels and keep an eye on Resistance activity had broken down and all other soldiers capable of maintenance for it were busy elsewhere.

It was in a location fairly remote and not at all extremely vital as far as strategy went, but she figured it was better to err on the side of caution anyways. Since it was well-known that the Resistance had makeshift bases in the tunnels instead of in the actual Slums and that they would routinely change bases in order to avoid getting pinned down in one spot, it was better to have as many computers as possible spying in the corridors and shafts.

So, really, all their group was expected to do was go into the tunnels, find out what happened to the computer, repair it if possible, and then check on the status of other nearby surveillance computers as well while they were there and do any routine maintenance they might also need. After that, they were told to simply leave and return to the surface so they could fill out a mission report.

No real fuss over this particular mission, despite technically having to enter a battle zone to do it. It was no wonder Agent Carolina didn't seem to mind handing the assignment over to them.

Still, Simmons couldn't help the nervous feeling welling up in the pit of his stomach even with this knowledge.

He supposed that it came as a mixed blessing of sorts that the pain from his surgery had dissipated by the time they had headed out. At least for the most part.

"Are you two done yet?"

Church's tone had a lazy drawl to it as he peered disinterestedly down at his two teammates bent over a computer terminal. It was odd in a way how his blue eyes almost seemed to glow in the dim light of the darkened space.

They were standing in the entryway to the tunnel closest to where the surveillance computer that went offline had been located with only one more sealed bulkhead between them and it.

The entrances to The Slums and the mines surrounding it from Above Ground were sealed with high-level military-grade tech and architecture. After the initial exodus of people to the surface, it seemed there had been a huge demand to keep everyone else stuck behind out. The tunnels usually had a ten-chamber security system with separate encryption codes for each space, the reinforcement for each sealed door getting progressively thicker and harder to break through. He wasn't sure a rocket launcher could get through the thinnest door: a heavy-duty missile probably wouldn't even _dent_ the final one. The codes to open each gate got increasingly more complex the closer to the surface one was as well.

Truthfully, if Simmons was ever in the mood to pat himself on the back these days, he'd probably be more likely to acknowledge just how incredible a feat it was for him to have hacked into that level of security and make it into The Slums all those years ago. But, it was a far thought from his mind at the moment and he really didn't remember much about that whole ordeal now beyond the sheer giddy feeling he'd had in the pit of his stomach when Grif had praised him for it later on, which then made him feel bad on account of not knowing what had happened to his friend. He had to concentrate now.

Besides, security protocols were heightened in the present day on account of the Insurrection somehow managing to bypass all of them to attack Above Ground directly and the active fighting in the tunnels now.

He glared up at his teammate in annoyance, "Give us a few more minutes."

"That's what you said ten minutes ago!"

He was about to snap in exasperation at him that it might take even more time (_it was fucking delicate work, after all!_) when Sheila beat him to it.

"Patience is an important part of the equation when trying to get through proper security channels, Church."

Church scoffed, mumbling something about how much he hated "computer shit" in general before leaving them to finish their work.

It was just the three of them this time since Doc was still in medic training full-time.

Simmons was trying not to feel too nervous, reminding himself over and over that the reason they were even doing this mission at all was because Agent Carolina didn't consider it a risky one.

Having Church breathing down their necks because he was aggravated they had to do this kind of work _at all_ certainly wasn't helping matters, though.

"Thank you." He mumbled quietly to Sheila when he was fairly certain that their comrade wasn't in earshot.

She gave a brief nod, "He can be difficult at times, I know."

That was putting it fucking mildly, but Simmons supposed he was glad that at least one of his teammates on this mission was polite.

"Hey, you guys, you better not be fucking talking about me!"

If nothing else, it definitely helped to balance Church out.

The last gate opened with a whirring sound less than twenty minutes later, darkness beckoning the three from the corridor beyond.

Church, already testy with impatience at having to wait so long, scoffed at this.

"So the lighting in this shitty place we're heading into is out too." His blue eyes flashed with annoyance, "Fucking great."

Simmons knew the lack of light wouldn't be much of a problem for Sheila since robotic night vision was excellent.

One of the few upsides he'd found after his surgery was that his augmented eye _also_ had a very useful night vision mode as well. Already it was adjusting to the gloom before them and he could make out shapes although nothing noteworthy or exciting, really: rocks, metal reinforcements, the computer paneling for lighting and other features of the tunnel beyond that was no longer functional in at least this area apparently, and so on. He doubted he'd even need the portable lighting that Church was now fishing out from the repair kit for the computer they had brought with them.

"Power in the tunnels can be iffy sometimes, but we should come across some lights that are still active soon." He tried supplying helpfully in the off-chance that he could help improve Church's current mood somewhat.

"Yeah, though it won't do jack-shit if I trip and break my neck on a goddamned rock before then." He could almost make out the scowl that no doubt was plastered on Church's face in his voice.

There was an odd tenseness in Church's tone and his body language was rigid and stiff.

Simmons exchanged a concerned look with Sheila upon noticing it, "Are you okay, Church?"

In any other situation, Church would have probably gotten angry in response to Simmons' question. His reaction to it now was perhaps even more disconcerting.

He waved his free hand in a dismissive gesture, moving past his teammates with a grimace clouding over his face, "I'm fine. I just…can't stand the dark. Or cramped places." He let out a sharp sounding laugh, "Which means this mission is fucking perfect, huh?"

Before either could respond though, his pace quickened, "So, let's just get this damned thing over with. Which way do we go from here?"

* * *

"And you figured bringing this mech back with you was a smart idea?"

Kimball glanced up at Freckles warily, a reaction that was pretty understandable given how menacing its size and heavy artillery made it.

They were in the large corridor that served as the meeting room for the Resistance. It had been a bit of a challenge to get the assault droid through some of the smaller tunnels to reach the base proper, but for as large as the robot was he was surprisingly flexible: no doubt the reason why Caboose had decided to teach him dance moves.

"Caboose wouldn't let us leave him." Tucker shrugged, "And you know how he gets when he's attached to something."

"Besides," York glanced over his shoulder at Freckles, his voice becoming a whisper as if afraid that the droid might overhear what he had to say from across the meeting room, "Did you really want us to leave something like that in the tunnels?"

"You have a point there."

Caboose, who had been happily running around Freckles and showing off to Donut all of the parts on his new "dog" that it liked to have scratched while Grif tried really hard to not get freaked out by how many of those parts were gun turrets, bounded over to them.

"Can Freckles stay?" he whined, eyes shining, "Please?"

Kimball seemed to debate it for a moment and the group gave a collective start when it seemed as though Freckles turned his head in their direction as if he was waiting on her answer as well.

Finally, she sighed, "He can stay, Caboose, provided you take good care of him." She frowned, following that quickly with, "And he doesn't shoot anyone."

"Yay!" he grinned, "You hear that, Freckles?"

"ACKNOWLEDGED."

"Now we just need to find you that tiny hat!"

"I swear this shit gets weirder every day." Grif muttered under his breath.

Sarge nodded in an almost sage gesture, "Tell me about it. You're now officially the worst soldier in the Resistance, Grif."

The orange armored man shot him an incredulous look, "What? How?"

"Well, technically, it used to be you and then Caboose. But he just got a giant death machine as a pet, so I say he just squeaks by you now on the competence scale."

Grif stared at him blankly, unable to formulate words to retort just yet.

"Truth hurts, don't it?" Sarge's gruff voice asked.

"That is the stupidest—"

"Well, you'll always be good as a human shield so don't feel too down!" Sarge chuckled maniacally, "There's bound to be a mission where we'll need a heroic sacrifice one of these days and you'll just have to do."

Grif was, again, at a loss for words.

"Though it wouldn't be heroic. More like a lazy sacrifice, in your case." The older man corrected.

"I can't believe you're my superior officer." He grumbled exasperatedly.

"Neither can I, Grif, neither can I." he sighed sadly, "Though you're so inferior to begin with that everyone is infinitely superior to you in comparison if you think about it."

"Can I get transferred now, please?" he turned to beg Kimball, deciding it best to ignore the crazy old man in red again for the time being.

Unfortunately for him, she was busy conversing with Tex and York.

"Did you find anything else down in 32-A?" she asked them, her tone and expression serious.

York shook his head, "Beyond Caboose's dog? No. We didn't find anything that wasn't dismantled or thoroughly destroyed."

She frowned, lost in thought, "Some freelancers have been snooping around in the tunnels for any military tech they can find." She caught their suddenly very grim expressions, "Not your type of freelancers: mercenaries, I mean."

"You think they might be a problem?"

From the way Tex worded the question it was pretty apparent that if the mercenaries _were_ something of an issue, she would be all for dispatching them. Most likely in the most swift and brutal way possible.

Grif shuddered, having to fight the instinctive urge to shield his crotch at her tone.

An unsure look pierced Kimball's brown eyes, something none of them were too familiar with seeing there. She tapped her chin thoughtfully.

"I don't think that will be necessary for one of them, at least." She finally said.

Sarge scoffed and Grif was relieved to see a disdainful look on his rough and weathered features that _wasn't_ directed at him for just existing for a change, "You're talking about that mercenary fella that's been sniffing around here, aren't ya?"

She nodded, "Felix." She said in way of elaboration.

"I don't trust him. No one who chooses to wear orange is up to any good!"

He sent a pointed glare in the tan man's direction and Grif sighed wearily.

That was fun for the two whole minutes it had lasted.

"Besides, he's even worse than Grif!" Sarge continued with his rant, "At least this dirt bag volunteered to be here even though he refuses to do anything meaningful and is a drain on resources that could be used to train a more worthwhile soldier: like a kitten with a bazooka, for starters."

"You know—"

"Oh, that would be so cute!" Caboose interrupted Grif's retort with one of his own, "It would have to be a small bazooka though because otherwise how would the kitten lift it with his tiny paws?"

Everyone chose to ignore him. They did that often when Caboose would interject his thoughts into conversations.

"That merc fella has the audacity to ask for money to fight the good fight! That's mighty un-soldier-like, if you ask me."

"Wait a minute, that's an option?" Tex's eyes seemed to light up somewhat at the possibility.

York smiled regrettably, "Yeah, it probably would have been one if we'd put it on the table when we first came here. I think we're stuck doing this for free now though."

"Damn it. That figures."

"Felix does know what he's doing though and he's not actually asking for money. Only a share in any tech or weaponry we scavenge, even if they happen to be damaged." Kimball chose to ignore the side commentary and focus on the discussion with Sarge. She did that a lot when all of them were together like this, though Grif couldn't really blame her for it: they did seem to get side-tracked an awful lot in their conversations.

"Still…" Sarge was obviously not too keen on the idea. Grif was rather curious about who this 'Felix' mercenary was to get so under Sarge's skin.

"You know as well as I do that we're not in a position to be picky." The leader of the Resistance reminded him, "Besides I haven't decided anything yet. I'll make sure he's true to his word if nothing else well before then, I promise you."

Sarge "harrumphed" and muttered under his breath something unintelligible in response, but he made no more discernible protests.

She turned back to Tex, "It's the other mercenary that's more of the issue. He calls himself Locus."

"You mean he named himself after his armor?" York whistled, "That's a bit messed up."

"Says one of the guys named for a defunct province on a planet none of us have ever lived on?" Tucker asked him incredulously.

"It's called a codename, Tucker, and I didn't pick it for myself."

"You're still using it, though." The dark-skinned man pointed out.

"I've heard of him." Tex cut into their dialogue with an off-handed remark to Kimball, "Nothing too pleasant."

A nod, "Which is why having him around isn't a prospect I'm particularly thrilled about."

"I'll keep a lookout for him then." The red-haired woman cracked her knuckles for added emphasis on the real meaning behind her words. It wasn't lost on anyone.

Kimball nodded again, "Thank you."

"And now that that's all taken care of and Caboose is back, I should probably go collect Junior from North." Tucker said, looking expectantly at Kimball to give the okay.

She gave a curt nod, which he took as his cue to leave.

"Aw, Tucker, why don't you play with Freckles some first?" Caboose asked before he could get away fully.

Tucker glanced upwards nervously at the robot, who then turned to look down at him.

He shook his head, "Yeah, I don't think so, Caboose. I have a feeling his definition of play would be shooting me, which I'm really not cool with right now."

"Grif, why don't you play with Caboose and his new robot?" Sarge jumped on that train of thought pretty quickly with an all-too eager look in his eyes.

Grif groaned, feeling like today was going to feel even longer than it had been already.

* * *

"You sent them into the tunnels."

Carolina scowled at the blunt statement and Washington had to fight the urge to instinctively shrink back in response to the very obvious _don't fuck with me_ vibe his commanding officer was giving him. The rookie Freelancer would never have addressed her that way before. He would never have questioned her orders.

Old habits were hard to break, it seemed, even when everything else about his existence had proved far too fragile.

_How many times had he been broken and put back together again? He wasn't really whole anymore now, he knew that much: just a collection of a thousand shards of 'self' in a worthless container. Some of those shards weren't even him. He had to remember who he was all over again whenever he woke up._

It was almost infuriatingly annoying to be so brought back to 'David' with just a look even though he knew how meaningless that sense of camaraderie he'd had with the Freelancers was. The respect, the _sense_ of it still permeated things: warping his perceptions further.

He wondered how much Carolina knew.

She was smarter than him. She was at the top of the food chain. She'd been around when Maine was taken over (_barely survived that, from what he'd gathered_). She'd been there when York, North, and Tex had defected (_he tried not to view that as a betrayal like how the others did, but that was only because he knew the _whole damn project_ was a betrayal now: though a small part of him couldn't help but still feel resentment over how neither York or North had bothered telling him anything or came to help him_).

He assumed she suspected, at least. Though perhaps she just didn't care.

He wasn't about to ask, to expose that he knew things now that he wasn't supposed to.

_Something trying to kill itself in your brain had nasty repercussions. Had to play them up to get people to overlook sudden knowledge of all things classified. He didn't even have to fake it._

It worked this time too because despite her obvious anger at a subordinate questioning her call, Carolina didn't lash out as she was want to do. _Maybe she did know or perhaps she didn't, maybe she felt sorry for him or perhaps not. She kept most things beyond her drive and her anger close to her chest and guarded, a skill he was so desperately trying to emulate now_.

Instead, she nodded, "Do you have a problem with that, Agent Washington?"

_A challenge. Tread carefully or not at all._

He swallowed nervously: "This wasn't a mission from the Director."

She didn't ask how he knew that (_'David' wouldn't have known before: he'd been far too stupidly clueless and trusting and look where it had gotten him_) and said instead, "No, it came directly from the Chairman of The Council."

Another thing he'd already known. There was something more to it than just routine maintenance. He just didn't know what. All he'd been told was that he was on standby for the time being (_he didn't think Malcolm Hargrove was any better than the Director, but he was his ticket out of this mess so he'd have to play along_).

Carolina was frowning, "I'm not sure what his game is, but I'm not wasting Freelancers for a routine repair mission."

Washington said nothing, suspecting it wasn't really all that routine. He hated thinking that way though, as he was not sure what it meant for Simmons and the others involved.

_Maybe he felt guilty, who knows? There should be more than enough of that flying around everywhere here._

"But if the mission somehow inexplicably goes south, there _is_ an extraction plan." Carolina seemed to interpret (_or "misinterpret," who can say? He barely knew what he felt himself anymore_), "Don't worry, Wash."

She almost seemed comforting then, like she used to be when he'd first joined and she had encouraged him through his dismal first missions and training drills or when he saw her smiling slightly at one of York's awful jokes. That was before. Before she became obsessed with perfection.

It took him slightly aback, especially when it flashed with a memory of a little girl laughing he hadn't ever seen before.

…_Probably had though, all of _its_ memories had been a blur in his head at that time. They would replay now without warning whenever something triggered them, with no real rhyme or reason he could discern._

Her face hardened just as quickly, however, green eyes like daggers when she moved into his personal space before he could even begin to register her movement.

"And _don't_ question my orders ever again." She growled out in a low voice, "That won't be tolerated from anyone anymore. Is that understood, Agent Washington?"

He briefly wondered if she thought of York when she said that, but knew better than to ask.

Washington nodded mutely in response and Carolina left without so much as casting another glance in his direction.

He didn't think she knew the full story then.

If she did, he was fairly certain the Director would already be dead.

_He was disappointed in a way that she didn't._

And he was disappointed with himself for having to once again wait to see how things turned out.

He hated waiting, even if it was one of the only things keeping him alive right now.

Waiting only seemed to make him dwell on things he'd rather not.

* * *

They found the nonfunctioning surveillance computer easily enough several hours after beginning their trek through the tunnels.

It would have been practically impossible had they not had the exact locations of all of the computers in the area stored in a digital map that they could draw on through the computers in their armor when necessary. The whole location was made even more accessible than simply relying on that thanks to the Global Positioning System that Sheila still contained as a throwback to her days inside of a tank. Not only did they have the intel stored inside their computers, but Sheila had access to all sorts of navigational and directional programming to make things even easier on them.

She had off-handedly mentioned to Simmons once that his enhancements made it plausible for him to have access to similar programming mentally as well, but Simmons wasn't quite sure he wanted to test that yet. It was one thing for him to be _able_ to do it, quite another to be ready to do so all at the same time.

Although certain cybernetic enhancements he _had _been more than willing to try and experiment with already, improved aim and motion control being the primary ones: _glad to see an improvement in his overall accuracy, extremely disappointed to realize it still was only marginal improvement at best_.

The surveillance device itself looked to be a small computer terminal deftly hidden in the wall-paneling of a mining corridor. It would be impossible to know it was even there if just walking by since the paneling concealed it from plain view. It was tricky even to find it if that portion of the wall was removed given how small and hidden it was amongst a nest of wires and circuitry unless someone knew what they were looking for or, more accurately in the case of miners or maintenance workers just doing their jobs, what _wasn't_ supposed to be there in the first place.

The tech the surveillance computers used to spy on things in the tunnels was very advanced in order to pick up on what was happening through somewhat thick metal sheeting. Simmons imagined it was so nit-picky in terms of the overall flow of data it picked up that being the people whose job it was to monitor the footage on a constant basis must be bored out of their minds, especially considering how most of the surveillance machines probably didn't pick up anything vital to begin with.

According to the map, they were in corridor 5-C though there seemed no logical rhyme or reason to the naming scheme in the mines that he could discern since the tunnel before that was 8-B and the following one was 58-H. Maybe it had at one point made sense when the colony had been newly established and there weren't as many mines, but it sure as fuck didn't make any now. The corridor itself was a larger one that opened out into a pretty big expanse of space, almost like an auditorium-sized room. Simmons supposed he could understand why a surveillance computer had been set up here after seeing it: this area could make for a decent-sized storage area or temporary base in a pinch or it could just be a good-sized corridor to move a lot of equipment or people through in a hurry.

Still, it had certainly seen better days in terms of its overall condition as some of the paneling and terminals had been jarred loose in it. There were large piles of debris throughout the place that they'd had to carefully navigate through: discarded, derelict mining equipment and large chunks of rock left behind for whatever reason.

Simmons was somewhat glad that it was mandatory army regulation to keep your helmets on when out in the field after seeing the state of 5-C: at least, feasibly, they could stay alive in case of a collapse for a little while. The oxygen wasn't so much an issue for him anymore as it would be for Church, but a large enough piece of debris hitting him or Sheila in the head could still prove fatal all the same.

Sheila motioned to one of the side-paneling sections that still seemed relatively intact.

"That is where the surveillance computer was located when it went offline." She said, a whirring sound coming from the inside of her helmet that indicated that she was using a digital locator to find that information.

"And since it's one of the only spots here that doesn't look like shit, it's probably still there." Church surmised. He still seemed oddly on edge about being underground, but he was covering it up a lot better now. Probably because there actually were some active lighting sources in the tunnels they'd been in recently and this one was larger to boot, or because finding the computer meant they were closer to being done with the mission. He even sounded somewhat eager when he spoke next, "Let's get this done with."

They worked to remove the panel in silence, the soft buzz of the hand tools used to free the metal sheeting from the wall the only sound for two minutes or so. Simmons and Church both glanced over their shoulders to make sure that no one had heard the noise and came to investigate.

When the paneling was gone from the equation and hastily put to the side, they were able to stare at the surveillance computer proper. Its dead screen and non-functioning lights a sharp contrast to the small blips of color around it that indicated power was still on in this tunnel at least partially.

"That is…" Sheila paused, as if trying to choose her words carefully, "Odd."

"Yeah?" Church peered at the contraption dismissively, "It's not working, which is why we're down here to fix it, right? Seems like that's exactly what is going on."

"It is not functioning, Church, that is correct." Sheila was reaching out to tap the tiny screen with a slim robotic finger, "But it is not working anymore _not _on account of having been removed or because it needs any sort of repairs."

"What the fuck are you saying, then?" he sounded very much confused, "Why isn't it active anymore?"

"Private Simmons, you're starting to figure out what I am deducing, yes?"

He frowned, piecing it together but having a hard time understanding the 'why' behind what it meant anymore than Church did.

"I—if it wasn't damaged or removed somehow," he finally said, knowing that Church was looking at him demanding an explanation and Sheila wanted to see how much he'd deduced on his own as well, "Then that means that it was manually shutdown."

"Okay, so what the fuck does that mean exactly?"

"It means, Church, that someone on our side shut it down." Sheila flicked a tiny button on the side of the computer and suddenly the blackened screen booted up with an inner light and flecks of blue and red blinked across its various buttons, "They probably didn't even leave Above Ground to do it given how powerful the data transfers from these devices are."

The frown was evident in his voice, "But what would be the point?"

Church was right, there: the action made no sense. If the person was a sympathizer to the Resistance and had gained access to the termination codes for surveillance computers then shutting all of them off or ones in more vital areas would have made the most strategic sense. This one computer was in a very remote location.

"I'm not sure." She shrugged, "Perhaps it was a prank? Human behavior is odd sometimes."

"A prank." Church sighed, taking a step backwards from the problematic machine with a defeated posture slumping his shoulders, "Fucking great. Carolina is going to be pissed when she finds out."

* * *

Grif was surprised to see North later on after the meeting, chatting amicably with Donut while suiting up into his armor.

"So you got to babysit this time, huh?" Donut was saying, a wistful look on his face, "I'm jealous!"

"I'm sure there will be other occasions where you can do it instead, Donut." The former Freelancer said gently, "I imagine it's a bit hard for Tucker to find a lot of people who want to look after Junior."

"True, I think the only other person who does it on a regular basis is Grif's sister, Kaikaina." The pink-armored soldier turned in his direction, "Right, Grif?"

He nodded, "Yeah, when she's not out having way too good of a time for it to be legal."

North shot him a sympathetic look, "Your sister's a bit of a handful, I take it?"

He wasn't being nosy, Grif knew. That wasn't North Dakota's personality. He was asking out of a genuine curiosity and not as a way to twist it into some judgmental comment about Grif or Kai. North wouldn't even probably get upset if the man refused to respond to his question.

It was almost strange in a way to think that the very same military program that had given rise to Agent Texas had also housed someone as incredibly understanding and kind as North.

"That's probably an understatement." He joked in response.

"Aw, but she's a good kid." Donut chimed in happily, "I wish you'd let her come by the base more, Grif."

"Yeah, not going to happen." He shuddered at the memory of what that had been like.

North smiled slightly at the exchange, "Sisters can be like that sometimes. She's lucky to have you in her corner, though."

"Do you have siblings, North?" Donut asked, probably curious due to the almost nostalgic tone that had entered North's voice.

Something odd flashed in North's pale eyes and he looked at the ground quickly, "One. A sister. We…don't talk anymore."

An uncomfortable silence filled the space as both Grif and Donut exchanged glances.

With how approachable North was, sometimes it was easy to forget the reason he was here. Of course he probably wouldn't have any contact with his family now that he had defected.

Not one to let silences linger unpleasantly, Donut spoke up, "Still, it's a shame about Junior. I mean, yeah, he's an alien and that's a bit weird but he's such a sweet little guy." He frowned, seemingly remembering something else, "I bet he feels lonely since no kids want to play with him."

"Theta would have loved to have met him, I'm sure."

The two glanced over at North, who suddenly looked embarrassed. Apparently he'd been so lost in thought he hadn't realized he'd spoken that out loud until now.

"Oh! He's a little kid I used to babysit." He said in way of a rush explanation, "Strange name, I know, but he was incredibly nice. Very shy but observant too, so I imagine he'd probably understand Junior's feelings quite a bit."

There was that nostalgic look on the blonde's face again, only the guilt and sadness in his eyes took on a pained, lingering quality to it this time. Neither Grif nor Donut seemed to feel comfortable asking for more information.

"Wow, North, you really are good with kids!" Donut chose to exclaim instead, smiling brightly in an attempt to overcome the suddenly heavy atmosphere.

"Thanks." He smiled warmly again, "Speaking of that, though, you two haven't seen Caboose around, have you?"

"Not since the meeting earlier." Grif frowned, "Why?"

"Tex asked me to tag along with both of them on an errand. Something about how Caboose said he wanted to walk his 'dog.'" He paused, looking at them both quizzically, "I'm missing something in the translation of that though, aren't I?"

Grif nodded, "Better bring the heavy artillery. Just in case."

"Got it." North picked up his favorite sniper rifle and gave them both a friendly wave before disappearing to find his comrade and Caboose.

"Hey, Grif, since we're not on duty for a couple of hours want to play a few rounds of Heads or Tails?"

He paused, knowing it wouldn't be that easy.

"Though on second thought, maybe not. I usually always go for Head, even though Tail can be pretty fun too just to mix things up!"

And there it was.

He took a deep breath in and out to let it slide.

Donut, oblivious to the fact that his innuendo habit had just struck again, smiled even brighter, "Oh! Or better yet, how about I show you this really delicious banana nut bread recipe I found online instead? I hope you like nuts though!"

* * *

Despite the fact that their reason for being there was completely not what they had expected, they still technically had a mission to do and that was to check on the status of a few other surveillance computers in the area as well.

Once the paneling was put back into place with Church grumbling under his breath about how this was just a "goddamned waste of time" all the while, they began to make their way back to where Tunnel 5-C intersected with several other corridors. Sheila was in front as she was able to access the locations of the computers and process the information quicker than her two male counterparts could.

"The closest one to us is in 42-B, which we can access through this corridor here." She tilted her head in the direction of a side-corridor a little ways from where they were standing.

"These ones aren't broken and shouldn't be fucking turned off, so hopefully it won't take too long." It was evident Church was grimacing due to his tone, "If we don't get lost or something looking for them."

"We shouldn't, not with my navigational schematics and the maps." Sheila shrugged, "At least not for more than a few hours."

"Comforting as always, Sheila."

And just as the man in cobalt armor began dragging his reluctant feet towards the tunnel that the robot had indicated the ground quaked and he slipped, landing on his knee. Hard.

"Ow, what the fuck was that?" he spat out through gritted teeth.

Simmons' face paled and he glanced around them nervously, "Is…is the tunnel collapsing?"

Not good, not good, not good: thinking about it abstractly through regulation protocol was one thing. He didn't really want to think of the incredibly low odds of them getting rescued from being buried alive before their oxygen ran out. In his panic, he forgot that he didn't have lungs or required oxygen anymore but there was no way to just tell his brain that at the moment. Regardless, the thought of being buried alive wasn't exactly a pleasant one.

And then, just as suddenly, the tremors stopped.

"Hello!" an unfamiliar voice boomed at them, "It is a good day to go walking, isn't it?"

Simmons managed to force his eyes open and made a mental note that he'd berate himself later for his total lack of soldier-like discipline once the adrenaline rush subsided. He was surprised to see a young man in blue battle armor grinning at them from the side-corridor they had just been about to enter.

"Um…" he wasn't quite sure what to say.

In front of him, however, Church had already drawn out his gun.

"Simmons, what the hell are you waiting for?" he hissed in a whisper over to his teammate, "Look at what he's wearing!"

He was right, really, even though Simmons didn't want to admit it, especially not with the blonde's far too innocent-looking eyes practically twinkling at them.

But the only people in the Slums who wore pilfered Above Ground equipment were Resistance fighters, he knew that much.

Shakily, he reached for the holster of his weapon but was reluctant to fully draw it. The young man seemed far too childish to be any sort of actual threat at the moment.

Church didn't seem to have that same hesitation when it came to pulling a weapon on him, but then again perhaps he did in a way and was just using it as a threat.

After all, Leonard Church was a horrible shot: even worse than Simmons on his _worst_ days. He'd most likely miss the kid even if he was shooting at him from two feet away.

The blond-haired young man tilted his head to the side and regarded them quizzically, "Are you new?" he asked, smiling brightly once more, "I love meeting new people!"

Simmons exchanged a glance with Church. Clearly, this Resistance member was neither one of the best or the brightest amidst their ranks.

_Too bad they aren't all like him or the war would already be over._

"Yeah, we're—uh, we're new." Church laughed nervously, his acting quite thick, "We must have gotten lost."

"Oh, I do that all the time. Sometimes I mark on the walls with crayon to remember where I am going."

"That's…good information to know." Simmons had never felt comfortable out right lying to someone, but he supposed it was better than the alternative in this case.

The young man's voice went into a conspiratorial stage whisper, "Though since I can only bring so many crayons with me I get confused again when I pass two blue puppies in a row!"

"We'll try to vary then. Maybe draw some flowers." Church's tone was slightly exasperated, but his willingness to play along to this bizarre conversation at least showcased that he didn't want to harm the Resistance fighter either.

"Flowers are nice. I like flowers." He was practically beaming now, "Oh, today is such a great day! First I met Freckles and now I met you." He grinned at Church in particular, "You can be my new best friend since you are also wearing blue!"

"Sure." Church shot Simmons and Sheila an obvious _What is wrong with this kid?_ look that was made all the more impressive since he had a helmet on, "But shouldn't we go our separate ways now and meet up later? With the shaking earlier, this place probably isn't stable and we really should find our way back on our own." He paused, trying to come up with a reason why that would be plausible, "For, uh, testing purposes. You know how it is."

"Oh, that wasn't shaking!" The young man seemed rather amused at the suggestion, "That was Freckles."

"Freckles?" Simmons repeated, more confused now than he'd ever been in his whole life.

"Yeah, we were walking and he got excited and ran ahead. He does that a lot." The blonde called out over them, "Freckles, say hello to our new friends!"

"THREAT LEVEL DIMINISHING."

And it was then that the three could have probably kicked themselves for not having noticed the giant assault droid behind them who had been apparently silently observing the whole exchange with a lot of nasty-looking guns pointed at them.

Simmons gulped, really unsure of how to explain that one at all.

"Yeah, he likes to play hide-and-seek with people. Then he likes to play hide-and-seek-and-sometimes-shooting-people." He supplied helpfully, "He really likes to play a lot."

"What should we do, Church?" Simmons whispered, suddenly extremely aware of just how badly the tables had changed once again.

"Quiet! I'm thinking."

"If I had my original body, this may have been less one-sided." Sheila lamented.

Church glanced over at the blond-haired Resistance fighter, "We might be able to take him." He finally muttered.

"Before or after the killer robot over there kills some of us?" Simmons' voice rose to an incredulous pitch.

"Hey, as long as it is either of you two and not me I'm good."

Simmons wasn't sure whether he was joking or not, but he was seriously debating trying to throttle his teammate before Freckles shot all of them.

"You really do find the strangest shit, Caboose."

A new voice spoke up from behind the blond, a woman in black armor suddenly melting into view from the shadows.

Simmons stared at her, surprised at how oddly familiar she looked.

Nearby, Church tensed visibly.

"Oh fuck." He heard him mutter, "Not _her_. Anyone but her."

She turned her head to regard Church and there was a slight amused note to her tone, "Buenos dias, cockbite." She said in way of greeting.

She glanced past them and the giant mech, "Everything okay, North?"

Another armored figure appeared from the tunnel exit they had just used, the group lined up in the sights of the sniper rifle he held in front of him, "All clear, Tex. They're the only ones." He called out.

And Simmons knew who he was right away, the voice and the violet armor all too familiar even though he'd only really seen him around the Mother of Invention before and hadn't directly interacted with him.

Agent North Dakota, formerly of Project Freelancer.

Which no doubt meant that 'Tex' probably stood for Agent Texas then. A soldier he hadn't encountered personally himself, but had first heard about because she'd somehow thrown a goddamned tank across a field during a training drill.

_We're fucked._

She turned to them again, as if waiting patiently for something. The fighter she called Caboose smiled, apparently oblivious to what was actually going on in this tense situation.

Finally, Church let out a ragged sigh and dropped his gun to the floor with a heavy thud, "We surrender."

"What? Why?"

Not that Simmons didn't understand the logic. Truthfully, he'd been more than a little peeved at Church's earlier tactical suggestion in regards to when they were just dealing with the assault droid, but he was curious to know what had changed in Church's mentality with the appearance of these two newcomers even if they were Freelancers considering how the giant mech hadn't apparently had that much of an impact on him earlier.

Church turned to him wearily, "Because I figured there was a fifty-fifty chance of Freckles over there taking the two of you out first. Knowing her, she'd gun right for me first just out of spite."

The woman gave a mock bow, "Aw, you know me so well. That's sweet, Church."

"Shut up, bitch."

Simmons watched the exchange in confusion, surprised to note that Tex seemed more amused by Church's comment than angry despite its harshness, "You two…you two know each other then?"

His teammate groaned, "Worse than that. She's my ex-girlfriend."

* * *

Surprisingly, for the first time since Grif had joined the Resistance, there were _actual_ prisoners to be had at base.

"First time any Above Grounders have ever surrendered." Sarge said to his team which he had dubbed the Red Team because of his unhealthy obsession with that color and its various shades except orange. His color obsession was almost on par with his unnatural love for his shotgun and violence in general, "Never thought I'd see the day."

He almost sounded disappointed. Maybe Sarge was in a way, on account of how he generally preferred simply shooting things.

"Can you blame them?" Grif asked, not really caring a ton but always in the mood to rile Sarge (_fair is fair and all that shit_), "They were facing Caboose's killer dog and two Freelancers. That's a pretty no-win situation."

"Of course you'd say that, Grif." He said disparagingly, "You're a lazy coward who will never understand how glorious a death it is to die fighting your enemies to the bitter end even when you know you're done for."

"I will if you keep ordering me to attack people with no bullets in my gun."

Sarge sighed, "One can only hope, dirt bag. One can only hope."

"Estoy tan contenta de que me construí para este ejército. En serio." _{"I am so glad I was built for this army. Seriously."}_

He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but Grif was fairly certain Lopez had just insulted all of them.

"Lopez is right, what is going to happen to them now?" Donut asked.

"Yo no he dicho eso. Realmente me podría importar menos." _{"I didn't say that at all. I really could care less."}_

Sarge harrumphed, arms folded against his chest, "Kimball's debating on that right now, talking with Tex and the other two Freelancers." He let out a sigh, an almost worried expression in his eyes, "She's a hell of a leader when it comes to motivating people, but I worry she might be too soft-hearted for her own good in other ways."

"And yet she made you second-in-command, so I'd say she's more desperate than anything else."

Let alone that she'd recruited people like himself to help fight too, but Grif chose not to say that.

Sarge ignored Grif's mumbled comment, back straightening, "So, starting today Red Team will be on guard duty until we decide what's going to happen to them." He grinned, "And that way, if they're up to no good, they get to meet my shotgun up close and personal!" he laughed at that part maniacally.

Donut's brown eyes lit up, "Oh, does that mean we'll be on shower duty too?" he asked, "Dibs on the soap on a rope!"

Sarge stared at him for a moment, sighing, "Son, what have I told you about your talking points?" he asked.

"Um," Donut paused and thought about that for a moment, face scrunched in thought, "That I should always stop talking a sentence before I usually do?"

"Yes, or try not talking at all." He told him, "Silence is golden sometimes and all that."

Grif wasn't even going to comment on that exchange because it sort of freaked him out.

* * *

The "prison cells" were really just some storage rooms off to the side of the base. They were located far enough away from everything that any vital intel if it was floating around wouldn't be overheard (which, on any given day, was largely debatable), but close enough that if there was any sort of commotion they were easily accessible by pretty much everyone in the Resistance. The doors had been replaced with bars (_"Oh, old-school!"_ Donut had exclaimed far too jubilantly for the situation when he saw them) that were pulled into a locked position thanks to a nearby computer terminal.

It had been a spot where Grif had snuck a few naps on occasion, so he was sort of bummed that it was occupied now though he assumed guard duty would probably be boring enough that he could get a nap or several in for as long as they were stuck doing it.

At least, he supposed, it got him away from fighting in the tunnels for awhile. Even if he was stuck doing it for the most part with a perky Donut and a sullen Lopez. Thankfully, Sarge would only be around every once in awhile given his other duties at base.

The three prisoners had been thoroughly checked over for concealed weapons and their helmets had been removed. Well, save for the female's helmet: apparently she was some kind of robot and as a result didn't have any face under her helmet which had sort of freaked a lot of people out. They had been separated into three different "cells" for the remainder of their time here.

All of them had glanced up when the replacement guards came, though the man with the cobalt armor and the goatee was the only one to speak. Grif really wasn't paying much attention, promptly sitting down on the nearest crate and trying to figure out the best approach to zoning out he could muster in this situation.

"Wow, we really must be a big deal if you three are our guards."

So the guy was sarcastic and blunt and they were going to be stuck with him for who knows how long. Fucking great.

"Not exactly our idea of a fun time either, asshole." He muttered, taking a cue from his sister's approach to people when they annoyed her for a change.

"Grif, that is rude!" Donut admonished him, hands on hips.

There was a startled, jerky movement in the cell next to Cobalt's at that. Grif cracked an eye open, but the figure inside had retreated to the back of the space, their maroon armor barely visible from where he was seated.

He frowned, finding something about that color oddly familiar.

"He started it." He tore his attention from the visible armor piece to defend himself lamely to Donut, who had started annoyingly tapping his foot on the ground when Grif hadn't responded to him quickly enough.

"Doesn't mean you bite back, Grif."

Cobalt whistled, apparently getting a kick out of the exchange between the two teammates, "That was a great comeback there."

"You know—" Grif stood up then and started making his way over to the guy's cell before Donut could stop him. Lopez seemed even better at zoning things out than he did, if that were possible. He could already tell dealing with this jerk was seriously going to get on his nerves if it continued like this.

Grif wasn't expecting the hand that suddenly shot out and grabbed at his arm from the neighboring cell, the grip both oddly strong and shaking all at once.

He started, about to yell at the Above Grounder to shove off when he saw a familiar, hesitant green eye regarding him with a mixture of disbelief and trepidation.

And suddenly his throat was way too tight and dry, even though his first cognizant thought was _yell and call him a dumbass for leaving like he did without saying anything_.

Instead of that, though, at practically the exact same moment both he and Simmons had gotten their voices back to functioning enough to shout the exact same thing at one another:

"What the fuck are you doing here?!"

* * *

**Author's Notes**: A bit of an evil cliff-hanger of sorts, but I figured I would stop it there at the exact "reunion" moment so that I can spend the next chapter really going into what happens afterwards. Sorry about that though! XD

Also, this is the first chapter where I wrote from the perspective of a character other than Grif and Simmons (Washington, in this case). That will probably be occurring with more frequency in future chapters since there are so many points to the story and it will be impossible to really go into them without having other character POVs. I am going to be limiting it to a small number of characters, though, to keep things from getting out of hand. I am thinking probably Washington, Tucker, C.T., Church, and York will get POVs at times given their connections to various plot-lines and maybe Felix once I decide on his story more too, but that will be about it. Though everyone else will still be quite important to the story, of course! :) And, naturally, since they're the two main characters and everything, the main focus will still be on Grif and Simmons throughout. :D

But that's why I had a Washington POV sneak its way into this chapter when I hadn't been writing from him before, in case anyone was wondering about it. I hope I didn't write him too badly, he's going to go through a lot of development cycles throughout the timeline of this fic. XD

So, yep, actual Grimmons interactions in the next chapter and other things will happen too! Thank you very much for reading this fic and I hope that this chapter was enjoyable for you. :D


	6. Chapter 6

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show's characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Chapter Six:

Honestly? Grif wasn't sure what he really wanted to do in this situation.

Simmons was standing there, death-grip still tight around his arm. Both of their faces were tinged red from the loud, simultaneous outburst they had just shouted at one another.

The pale face before him was contorted vividly with a wide range of emotions all at once: shock, disbelief, worry, anxiousness, anger, frustration. He had no doubt his own looked rather similar.

Grif's mind was drawing a blank on finding anything to say. After all, up until this point he'd been about ninety-percent sure he would never see Richard "Dick" Simmons again. He'd sort of hoped so, really, given that he knew Simmons had planned on going into the military: seeing him under circumstances like this after so long was akin to a massive punch to the gut.

It seemed like their little shouting match had been as articulate as things might get for the moment. He swallowed, his throat dry. When he opened his mouth again he promptly closed it.

Simmons was practically shaking all over, but his hold on his arm was still vice-like. Grif was almost surprised that he could even feel it through his armor. Then there was that weird red eye and the odd patch of way too white skin bereft of the freckles that still dotted the rest of Simmons' face- _what the hell was up with that?_

Neither of them had noticed that no one else was saying or doing anything in the aftermath of their exchange.

Donut stood stock still and frozen, hands held up to his face with his mouth forming an almost comical "O" shape in response. The female robot in the green and grey outfit tilted her head to the side, almost in a mildly curious gesture. She was in the cell on the opposite side of the room, directly facing them on the side where Donut and Grif had first set themselves up for "watch duty" earlier.

Even Lopez, who had apparently decided to remain in the open doorway of the prison area instead of venturing inside, actually took a few steps in upon hearing the shouting- probably just to see what was going on.

It was the man in the cobalt armor, leaning at an angle on the bars of his cell so that he could get as full a view of what was happening the next cell over as he could, who finally broke the tense silence.

"What? You two know each other?" he glanced at what little he could see of Simmons with a begrudging sort of respect. After all, there was really only one way for an Above Grounder to have an acquaintanceship with someone from The Slums: he probably hadn't even thought sneaking down here was something his more timid teammate was capable of without a military order to do so.

The question broke the weird, still moment the two other men had been stuck in.

Suddenly, Simmons seemed to realize that he'd been hanging onto Grif's arm the entire time, his face becoming that same tomato red hue that Grif still remembered from when they were teenagers (save the far too white portion of his face, which remained colorless) and he pulled his hand away quickly as if touching Grif had somehow burned him, looking incredibly sheepish. He retreated further into the cell, refusing to make eye contact with anyone.

And, arm suddenly free, Grif's body reacted before his mind could regain control and scream at him for being an idiot when there was so much he wanted to say and probably far too little time for it, really.

He ran.

* * *

"G-Grif, hey, wait! Where are you going?" the pink-armored soldier (_okay, seriously, that was a weird color for battle armor in general_), called after his chubby teammate worriedly.

Church sighed, really not wanting to deal with any of this bizarre drama on top of all of the other bullshit he was going to be dealing with already, "I don't know what the fuck's up with those two, but I'd let him go for now." He advised the younger man. He thought the guy's name was something strange like "Donut" or something: the blonde had gone through an oddly cheerful introduction sequence for himself when the three Resistance members had shown up for guard duty, but Church hadn't been paying too much attention at the time.

Donut (what the hell, he was just going with that for him now) frowned, casting an anxious glance past the brown-armored fighter's frame in the doorway, "But…"

"Your teammate probably just needs time to think." He raised a black eyebrow and addressed his next question to the person in the cell beside his, "Isn't that right, Simmons?"

Simmons said nothing in response, seeming to have retreated inside of himself for the time being.

That caused him to shoot Donut a triumphant "_told you so, kid"_ look.

Jesus, he really didn't want to play babysitter to everyone right now: not for his teammates, and definitely not people who were technically his enemies. He also certainly did not want to get involved in some kind of relationship squabble.

"Does your knowledge of human relationships come from your involvement with Agent Texas, Church?" Sheila inquired.

Damn it, leave it to polite-as-always Sheila to unintentionally pour salt on that still festering wound.

If Tex were here, she'd probably be laughing her ass off at the whole thing. It was strange how that thought amused him more than it frustrated him.

He laughed mirthlessly, "The only knowledge I learned from my involvement with Tex is that I needed to keep a good eye on my credit chip and that I needed to know how to duck quickly. A lot."

Yeah, their relationship had definitely had some rough patches. Some fun times too though. Odd how both of those categories usually involved some bruising though.

"Ducking probablemente no ayudó mucho." _{"Ducking probably didn't help much."}_

The brown-armored guy (from his electronic sounding voice, Church figured he was probably a robot unless he was filtering his actual vocals like how Tex used to) spoke up, but Church had no real idea what exactly he'd just said.

"Nah, I don't think he meant ducking in a fun way either, Lopez." Donut said in response.

The robot looked at him briefly and it seemed as if he almost sighed in frustration given his body language.

"Realmente deseo que no había entendido eso." _{"I really wish I hadn't understood that."}_

Sheila turned slightly to regard Lopez, "Agreed. Agent Tex rarely misses in physical combat." she said, nodding as a reply to Lopez's earlier statement. Apparently she just decided to ignore the whole side conversation with Donut or perhaps she just didn't process what it really meant to begin with.

The other robot stared at her, as if surprised by getting an actually accurate response for once to something he had said. Church had the feeling that didn't probably often happen too much if his reaction to Donut's comment was any indication.

She gave a polite sort of bow, "It is a pleasure to meet a fellow robot even under these conditions." That smile was still in her voice, "You can call me Sheila."

"De repente me siento sudoroso." _{"Suddenly I feel sweaty."}_

"That is strange." She regarded him curiously, "Perhaps your internal temperature systems are malfunctioning?"

"Y ahora me voy en shock." _{"And now I am going into shock."}_

And while Donut wasn't really the most accurate Spanish translator in the world from what Church had seen, he apparently knew enough about what Lopez was saying and was able to interpret the robot's body language to make a fairly astute guess on the sudden change in the air.

"Aw, I think Lopez might be getting a little crush on someone!" his voice took on a happy, sing-song quality.

That was just fucking perfect.

Church groaned, slamming his head against the bars of his cell despite how that sort of hurt without a helmet on in a vain attempt to remove the last several minutes of his life from his mind, "Can't you people just fucking shoot us now and get it over with?"

* * *

Tex seemed to be in a _great mood_ by the time the conversation with Kimball was over with, if the scowl darkening her expression was any indication.

York gave her a sympathetic look, already knowing it would be ignored when she stormed over to a chair and practically threw her body onto it.

It wasn't that Tex was angry at Kimball or anything. Far from it actually, Kimball had listened and agreed to all of their suggestions on what to do next. No, she was just really pissed off at the situation as a whole.

He couldn't blame her for that, not really. This was a situation that could get messy real quick and didn't promise a lot of pleasant outcomes for them.

"They were sent down here for a reason." She finally said, harsh brown eyes staring at the wall.

"They were Florida's group, I think." York frowned, squinting his one good eye in thought.

He hadn't known them personally since the group hadn't really been associated with Project Freelancer. Florida had volunteered to be a captain on his own free time and he had seemed to genuinely enjoy the role despite the extra work that put on his shoulders. York hadn't really understood why: maybe the whole thing had just been Florida's way of keeping himself grounded in the face of all of the secrets and lies surrounding the program.

He'd never know for certain, now.

Hearing about Florida's death had been a really bad blow, especially with the Resistance cover cleverly put up over it.

"The mission briefing we found on them seems genuine enough and I'd know if that idiot Church was hiding something. Besides, the one in the maroon armor seems like he would be a terrible liar to boot given how nervous he was." She tapped her finger on her leg absentmindedly, "Which means if the computer had been turned off manually in the first place like they said it was, it was definitely some kind of set-up."

"But why?"

This was all information they had relayed to Kimball already, save a few details best kept amongst themselves for the moment.

York almost wished that North was here too to discuss this with them. It certainly would save having to relay the whole matter to him once again later if nothing else, but North had been pulled away by Caboose immediately after the meeting with Kimball with the younger Resistance fighter talking quickly and excitedly about wanting someone to go with him to find his "new best friend."

Judging by the hesitant look that had been on his friend's face, York imagined that North was probably trying to come up with a polite way to explain the whole concept of "prisoners" to Caboose- which he did not envy him for in the slightest given that it probably would just go over the poor kid's head anyways, regardless.

"If they were under Florida's command, then that means they probably just got cycled under the Freelancer umbrella once he was declared KIA." Tex muttered.

"You think the Director…?" he trailed off, not bothering to finish the sentence. His meaning was still fairly evident.

The Director was a man who wanted results, no matter how he came upon them. It wasn't impossible to think he might have set this whole thing up on purpose for some reason only fathomable to him.

She frowned, "I don't know who did it, but I am fairly certain this whole fiasco was a test of some sort. I don't think it was a coincidence that Florida's team happened to be picked for it."

York picked up on her train of thought, "It has something to do with Project Freelancer."

"Either they wanted the mission to go south as an excuse to attack directly, which is a pretty good possibility," she said thoughtfully, "Or they wanted to test a theory on one of this team's members in particular."

He knew who she was referring to, if only because of the bits and pieces Tex had been willing to disclose to both of her fellow defectors when they had initially agreed to help her: "You mean Church, right?"

Her back stiffened and her mouth became a thin, tight line- and he knew he was correct in his assumption. "Someone probably made an educated guess about him and they wanted to test him to see their theory was right." York surmised.

Not the Director, then. He already damn well knew.

Was there a power-play going on amidst the higher-ups in Above Ground government then? Only they'd have ready access to confidential information even the best of the best Freelancers weren't privy to, and they would also have the authority to use the disable codes for surveillance computers as well.

Figured, if Project Freelancer was corrupt as all fuck, why not other parts of the military and government on the surface too?

He was certain Delta would have something profound and infuriatingly logical to say about it all. It was times like this one when he missed the green little cockbite the most.

"Too bad for whoever it is. He's already far too broken for them to be able to use him anymore." There was an odd tinge that almost came across as sadness in Tex's voice and she pointedly turned her head so that he couldn't see her expression.

York understood her regret all the same, but knew addressing it would be a mistake. Tex could do incredible things, but her failures were what drove her. She had far too many of them in her mind, all of which cost others far more than they cost herself.

Instead, he said gently, "He doesn't know, does he?"

She shook her head once, "Probably better that he doesn't."

_Only so much one person can take. Not remembering, having false memories of a life that hadn't really happened. It was probably the only way he could cope with a situation that wasn't livable anymore._

York could understand why she didn't want Church to know when looking at it from that perspective.

"Are you going to visit him then?" he asked, feeling emboldened by the fact that she hadn't told him to drop this topic of conversation that was a tad more personal than she liked going usually, "Since he's here and everything?"

She fixed him with a blank look, face as unreadable as a sheet of metal.

"Would you visit Carolina if she were here?"

And he grinned in a sheepish, dorky way and Tex couldn't help but groan knowing she had walked right into that one herself.

Of course he would. York was a hopeless romantic, through and through.

He probably would still be at the Mother of Invention, begging Carolina to see reason if their former leader hadn't knocked him unconscious during their last exchange.

Finally, Tex replied to his question, "I might later." She frowned, "Not sure what I'd say though."

"I find that 'Hello' is a pretty good icebreaker." He joked slightly, the grin on his face now a friendly one.

She shot him a look that clearly said "_And how long have you known me?_" while arching one of her red eyebrows.

Though they didn't look really similar in his mind, he had to stop himself from seeing Carolina in the gesture: how often had she shot him a look with the same kind of meaning behind it, red eyebrows raised and an amused, exasperated look in her green eyes.

_Constantly, when they'd first met. Not as much as he'd hoped, towards the end._

Maybe Delta had been right: on top of being a hopeless romantic, he was an illogical one to boot. The green guy had gotten on his nerves all the time, but damn it did he miss having him around to talk to now. He hadn't realized how much he'd gotten used to that constant bond after the implantation surgery.

Though, truthfully, he figured most human beings were pretty illogical when it came to love.

That was probably part of what made them human.

"I'm on guard duty with Blue Team later on anyways, so I'll think of something to say by then." Tex informed him, breaking through his thoughts with her clear voice, "Right now, though, we have to focus on other tasks."

He started, looking at her. Once more, her expression was its usual fierce combination of grim and determined.

"Kimball was right. If Freelancer is involved in this in any remote way, we have to be prepared for the fallout."

* * *

"Dude, what the hell?"

Grif frowned, not bothering to look up at Tucker from his spot on the ground.

It figures his friend knew him well enough to have uncovered his second "super secret" naptime spot: a small alcove off to the side of the tunnels that made up the Resistance base.

"Oh, hey, Tucker." He kind of really hoped that his friend was just here more to be a killjoy to his laziness than anything else. He really didn't want to deal with certain topics and any weird lingering feelings that resulted from them right now, "Did you get Junior home safe and sound?"

"You already know I did. That's why I'm back!" he gave Grif a pointed look, "Don't try to change the subject, dumbass."

"Um," he wondered how long he could drag this out, "What are you talking about?"

"Caboose was talking all energetically with North about his new best friend or some shit so I got dragged to where they're keeping the Above Grounders too."

Damn, so much for any remote chance of avoiding it.

"Donut said you ran screaming for the hills a little while ago."

He raised an eyebrow, "I did _not_ run screaming."

Tucker scoffed, "I know, dude. I've seen you run: it barely qualifies as a fast walk half the time."

"I get winded very easily."

"Yeah, whatever, it's called exercising every once in a while, fatass!"

"Like you exercise that much?" he knew his friend did exercise sometimes and ran drills, but he also knew Tucker could be a pro at avoiding physical work just as much as he was when he really wasn't motivated to do anything.

"I did with your sister the other night, bow-chika-bow-_OW_!" Tucker grimaced when Grif's foot collided with his knee, "Man, you suck!"

"Bad joke, Tucker." His orange-armored friend glared at him.

Tucker shot him a grin despite the pain in his brown eyes from the kick. For a lazy fuck, Grif sure could make things hurt when he felt like it, "Figured being a smartass would get you to react a little."

Grif said nothing at that and Tucker sighed, his expression turning serious, "I saw him."

He pressed on when that didn't get a response from Grif, "The guy in the maroon armor. He's that pasty, nervous kid who stayed at your apartment that one time, isn't he? The one you were practically married to."

_That_ got the tan man to look up at him, "We were _not_ married."

Tucker raised a black eyebrow, "Oh, come on, even Kai said it- maybe not to you directly, but definitely to me. You were sleeping together and everything!"

"In the same room, that's all!"

Jesus, what the fuck had Kai been telling people? He made a mental note to have a chat with his little sister the next time he had a day off.

"Whatever, dude. I call them like I see them, and the two of you seemed pretty fucking domestic whenever I saw you guys together."

"Tucker…" he began.

But Tucker wouldn't let him get a word in beyond that this time, looking at him askance, "Is that why you ran then? You freaked out because he's here?"

Grif closed his mouth quickly, feeling heat on his face and getting really embarrassed at the reaction especially in light of Tucker's earlier comments.

It had been stupid to run like that. Then again, it wasn't like Simmons hadn't frozen up either.

He just—he hadn't expected to ever see the Above Grounder redhead again and certainly never under these conditions.

He still remembered their last conversation all too vividly: the visible relief on the other teen's face when Grif had said he had no intention of getting involved with the Resistance.

Things had changed and he wouldn't fucking take back his decision now, but remembering that somehow made him feel like a hypocrite all the same.

Seeing Simmons again had twisted a whole lot of things up for him, truthfully. Now he wasn't sure he could keep viewing the other side of this conflict as a bunch of anonymous assholes after what had happened in Level One and with Tucker's mom in particular.

No, _now_ he had to interact with some of them directly thanks to this prisoner hoopla and one of them had a face that instantly reminded him of events that still came back to him all too clearly despite how many years had gone by since they'd happened.

Fuck it.

Tucker knew him well enough to accurately guess at what he was thinking, "You probably should try talking to him. Just to get closure and all that shit."

Grif sighed, knowing he was probably right about that.

"Besides, if Sarge finds out you skirted on a mission he considers to be of the utmost importance, I am pretty sure he actually _will_ shoot you."

And he was probably right about that too.

Dexter Grif groaned and sat up, regarding Tucker with a somewhat impressed look, "Since when did you actually start making valid points?"

"I have a kid now and I'm partnered with Caboose. It was bound to happen eventually." He gave a self-deprecating grin, "Though I wouldn't count on it all the time, dumbass."

* * *

_Shit, shit, shit, shit!_

Simmons was surprised that he could still make sense of that word in his thoughts, with the frequency of its constant repetition there currently.

It was bad enough that the mission had gone horribly wrong, bad enough that they'd been taken prisoner. He could almost see the look of disgust and looming disapproval on Agent Carolina's face: it was not at all shocking when hers somehow morphed into his father's.

But Grif was here too on top of that. Hell, he'd had to fucking go so far as to _touch_ him just to make sure. Like an idiot.

And there were so many things he'd wanted to say and do in that moment, that exclamation only the tip of the iceberg. So what did he do instead?

Freak out and retreat as far away from Grif as possible, like the pathetic, socially anxious dumbass that he was.

No wonder Grif ran away at the next available moment.

From outside of the cell, he could hear varying degrees of chatter.

Despite the circumstances, Sheila seemed to be relishing the chance to interact with another rather advanced robot. It had never occurred to him before now, but maybe she had felt lonely surrounded only by humans in Above Ground? He'd ask her later, if he could work up the nerve to do so.

The brown-armored robot called Lopez would say something in Spanish and she would respond with a fluent understanding of what he'd said despite the conversation sounding oddly one-sided on both ends since they were still speaking completely different languages. The wonders of computer translation software, he supposed.

The man in pink armor who was named Donut was happily humming a tune under his breath. The younger Resistance fighter would occasionally cast a sympathetic, kind-hearted look his way but thankfully didn't approach him. Simmons wasn't sure if he could deal with talking to anyone at the moment, especially not to overly-curious strangers.

"And then, when this is all over and the nice lady lets you out, we can go play fetch with Freckles together! He loves playing with his balls."

"Don't we all?" Donut asked in response, brown eyes twinkling merrily.

Simmons was going to really try to pretend he hadn't heard that.

"For the love of God, shut up!"

Well, he supposed it could be worse: he could be stuck in Church's position. The blond-haired young man in blue armor had come by to visit them and had immediately gravitated over to Church's cell. Evidently he lived on base, which only about half of the Resistance apparently did on a permanent basis. So now Caboose was engaging Church in active conversation, along with some occasional innuendo-filled commentary from Donut.

Maybe having a freak-out was at least good for some things, after all, since he seemed to be ignored. Thank goodness for small miracles, Simmons guessed.

"Kimball is nice like that." Caboose continued talking, not really paying attention to Church's growing frustration, "Everyone here is nice though, even the mean lady."

"I'm sure you're all real charitable acts." Church groaned and rubbed his eyes, "That's why you're fighting a goddamned war."

There was a heavy silence and Church removed his eyes from his hands and glanced out at the prison beyond with what seemed like a mild curiosity to see why things had gotten so quiet. Simmons could only partially see him though, given the spacing of the neighboring cells to each other and Church's angle to the bars, though it was enough to see the other man pale slightly at what he saw.

Simmons had a clearer view of the others than he did of Church: he was surprised to see a rather hurt and offended look cross over Donut's face at the comment. He honestly hadn't been sure the kid could even feel negative emotions all that deeply before given how he normally acted. The two robots had fallen silent as well, though it was impossible to read any expressions from them naturally due to their helmets.

And Caboose- well, the poor guy looked as if he had just witnessed someone running over a basket of puppies and then hit reverse just to make sure they had finished the job.

"Er…" Church must have seen that too and was backtracking in his head to figure out something to say. He could be an asshole sometimes, Simmons knew from personal experience, but he wasn't _that_ much of an asshole.

"It was the people living up there that started it." Caboose's voice had an odd tinge of clarity to it that usually wasn't present when he spoke, his words holding a lot of meaning despite their more simplistic and childish phrasing.

He was right too and everyone knew it: technically the Insurrection had started things when they launched an attack on Above Ground, but the response to that by the Council and the military had been nightmarish.

No doubt most of the people who made up the Resistance now had been affected by the massacre at Level One.

He thought of Grif and his throat constricted a little.

Thinking about that event at all often made him question what he was doing here, what he was fighting for. He tried not to, really. It was easier to convince himself that if he rose high enough in the ranks maybe he could illicit some kind of positive change. Never mind how that was clearly a pipe dream by this point.

"Look, I'm…" Church seemed to be struggling for the right words at the moment, "Sorry, okay? It's just a little frustrating being stuck here."

Caboose's eyes glimmered slightly, though his overall expression still looked crestfallen.

"You said you liked coloring, right?" the cobalt-armored man asked, recalling their earlier conversation with Caboose in the tunnels, "If you bring some crayons with you next time, we'll draw together. Does that sound good?"

It was Church's odd, awkward way of extending a peace offering and, despite himself, Simmons couldn't help the watery smile forming on his face at having witnessed such a rare occurrence from his teammate. No doubt the whole thing had made Leonard Church extremely uncomfortable.

The gesture worked though because the hopeful look in Caboose's blue eyes flooded over his entire face at the suggestion.

"That will be so much fun!" he exclaimed happily, "I will bring paper too. I can't wait!"

He swore he heard Church let out a quiet sigh of relief though Simmons knew he would vehemently deny it if he ever tried mentioning it to him, and he glanced over at Donut to see that the other blond Resistance fighter was also smiling slightly again with a look of relief in his eyes. Sheila and Lopez resumed talking to one another now that the tense situation had been diffused.

It was then that someone else approached his cell, having completely caught Simmons off-guard while he'd been preoccupied with his own thoughts as well as the sudden change in the exchange between Church and the simple-minded Caboose.

He started, having to fight the instinctive urge to shrink to the far back of the enclosed space again when he saw who it was.

Grif looked as if he was fighting an inner battle with himself as he stood there, his tan face contorting into several different expressions before he finally got up the nerve to say something.

"Hey," he began, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably, "We need to fucking talk."

* * *

"Hey, are you even listening to me at all?"

C.T. glanced over at the annoyed tone in South Dakota's voice. The other Freelancer was glaring at her, the scowl on her face seemingly permanent these days.

She wasn't sure if that was to do with her twin brother's defection or just the general state of things at the Mother of Invention right now and she really didn't want to risk asking.

Agent South Dakota had always had the reputation for being a powder keg about to explode, especially compared to her brother's calmer demeanor. Now she was even more volatile than ever. Talking to her about anything always seemed a risky move anymore.

She smiled apologetically, hoping to diffuse the situation somewhat, "Sorry, lost in my own thoughts again."

South's pale blue eyes still flashed with annoyance, but she begrudgingly accepted her teammate's apology, "You've been doing that a lot lately."

The brunette closed her locker, staring at her designation on the door before her, "I think all of us have a lot on our minds these days."

She managed to make herself sound neutral, voice even. She could almost clap herself on the fucking back for her performance.

"True enough."

South didn't mention North, she noticed, though her expression did cloud over with a look that Connecticut really couldn't read. She absentminded flicked a strand of blond hair out of her face, the end of it dyed a shade of purple closely resembling the orchid that was her armor's signature color.

South never mentioned him anymore, actually. It was odd in a way to think back on how the two of them had often been together more often than not, to seeing one sibling so completely isolated.

Then again, it was still hard to wrap her head around that South had shot North in the back and ripped his A.I. chip out too.

Freelancer was good at creating divisions between people, just like the city that housed the project was capable of doing.

With that kind of thinking, no wonder she had been so willing to listen to _him_ all those years ago. A small part of her regretted that now. Most of her didn't still, though, for all that it was worth.

"So, what were you saying exactly?"

Best to put on the friendly face and stay on everyone's good side for a little while longer. _Us girls have to stay together and all that, huh?_

She already made it a habit to let South walk first in the halls and out on the field.

"I was just saying that I wish Carolina would make a fucking move that actually would _do_ something instead of these piddly-ass missions." South's eyes practically burned a hole in her locker when she slammed it closed with unnecessary force, "I'm itching for a real fight."

That was probably a gross understatement given how dented her poor locker's door was looking these days.

"Everything is still in disarray here after what happened with Maine and…" she paused, noticing the sharp warning look South threw her way predicting what she was most likely about to mention and quickly changed her intended phrasing, "Everything else that's happened."

The taller woman scoffed, "Yeah, and thanks to Maine going off the deep-end and all that, plus Washington's fuck-up, the A.I. implantation program's on hold now too."

C.T. wasn't sure how having a surgery go horribly wrong somehow counted as someone "fucking up," but she chose to keep her mouth shut on that.

She suddenly understood a little more why Washington often tended to avoid South the most out of all of the Freelancers still in particular—thanks, in part, to the bitterness in her teammate's tone when it came to simply talking about him.

"Knowing Carolina, she's probably just as itching for a fight, so I'm sure we'll get bigger missions once they're allowed." She said, hoping to divert some of South's frustration away from their remaining comrades, however loose that term was for all of them now.

No doubt Carolina wanted to settle the score with a certain black-armored former Freelancer in particular. C.T. glanced at South, wondering if she wanted to the same thing with North or if the bullet in his back during his defection had been enough for her.

"I hope it's fucking soon, then." She said, "Or else I'm going to have to start punching random people in the halls."

With that cheery mental image, South gave a small wave in C.T.'s direction and left.

She sighed, feeling a bit more at ease now that she wasn't trying to navigate a temperamental social minefield at the moment.

That was, until the hidden, secure channel not-at-all-military-approved communicator located on her armor's right forearm beeped once.

It was a low sound, almost a whistle that could be misinterpreted as any sort of the different digital background noises one could feasibly hear and probably tune out in places as technologically advanced as a base like the Mother of Invention, but she had trained her ears to listen for it awhile ago more distinctly so that she could tell the difference.

It only ever went off when something urgent was happening as it was far too risky to use too much given who was sending the messages and from where.

Frowning, she opened her locker and put on her helmet once more: tapping on the underside of her right forearm's armored covering in a way that seemed to be for all intents and purposes a nervous habit to anyone else who might see it. She'd practiced going through the motions when not receiving communications as well, just to reinforce the idea that it was a gesture she did repeatedly to avoid suspicion. Eventually the message display came up in front of her face.

The communiqué was short and, even though it was just a collection of words on a digital screen, came across just as terse as the woman who sent them often did.

She let out a sharp breath, her stomach turning. She wasn't quite sure what was more upsetting: the situation Tex was describing in general or the fact that she'd been out of the loop again until just now.

Freelancer was fucking secretive all right, even when it came to missions that were supposed to be more routine in theory.

It wasn't really a surprise she'd started becoming suspicious of the project when she began to notice those sorts of activities and the divide forming between its members. In a way she was just more surprised that no one else seemed to have started putting two-and-two together until far too late.

"C.T. ."

Washington's voice came from behind her and she practically jumped, having been too engrossed in what she had been reading to notice his presence.

Then again, ever since his surgery and subsequent very extended recovery period, Washington had been becoming progressively more adept at stealth in general. He was sometimes doing better in that department than she was and that was the one combat skill of hers that C.T. took some measure of pride in.

It was almost as if he was trying to emulate the cats he had adored so much when they were kids growing up together: the ones with the pictures he still had hanging fondly in his locker despite all the teasing it used to get him from the others. Back when he was still David.

She missed those days now. Hell, she'd even let him call her Connie again if it meant she'd have a bit more of her old childhood friend back. Even if that name had taken on a different meaning for her when it had been spoken fondly by someone else a while ago, even if thinking about that name still hurt sharply.

"W—what?" she could have kicked herself for the shakiness in her voice as she hit her forearm, using her surprise motion to cover up the act.

The message display shut down. She'd have to figure out a good time to reply back to Tex as soon as possible.

Washington said nothing for a long while, staring at her fully-armored figure with an unreadable expression on his face and in his gray eyes.

She swallowed nervously, suddenly reminded of another time when he'd caught the tail-end of an actual vocal communication between herself and someone else very different from Tex.

He hadn't said anything then beyond expressing concern over her decision, but who could tell now with the changes in Washington what he would do if he suspected something strange was going on? Especially since he didn't seem to trust anyone anymore as far as he could throw them.

Finally, he said, "There's a new mission briefing. Top priority."

"Oh, okay then."

Never mind that she had just come back from a routine assignment with South then. Thanks to the intel she'd just read over, she had a sneaking suspicion she knew what this mission briefing was going to be about.

"We'd better get going."

She walked past Washington as steadily as she could, ignoring that his eyes were still fixed on her for a few seconds afterwards before he moved to catch up. She really didn't want to think that he knew or suspected anything, after all. She wasn't sure how she would react to that- or how he would, for that matter.

It looked like South was going to get her wish for more combat sooner rather than later.

* * *

Tucker wasn't the most active fighter in the Resistance. Sure, he'd do his part because he fucking volunteered for this shit for a reason, but anything past that? Generally he had to be pretty motivated.

So it was a little surprising that he found himself heading over to the newly erected (_okay, he had to stop himself from snickering at his own thoughts there_) prison area well before the time of Blue Team's (_named oh-so-creatively for his and Caboose's colored armors_) designated guard duty.

Maybe it was because he wanted to make sure his lazy-ass friend had taken his advice, maybe it was because he was bored because Junior wasn't here, or because Freckles was guarding the outer tunnels of the base and he preferred being as far away from a giant robot that thought shooting tennis balls out of the air equated to a game of "fetch," or perhaps it had to do with the fact that Caboose was probably already there so he might as well get it over with too.

He was pretty much an all or nothing sort of guy, so take your pick.

"Hey, Tucker, fancy seeing you here so early!" Donut greeted him cheerfully when he showed up. How the guy could remain so perky after five hours or so of guard duty watching prisoners who weren't really that interesting, Tucker would never know, "If you came for a shower inspection you'll be sorely disappointed. They haven't been installed yet."

"That was definitely not an image I needed in my head, Donut."

"Hygiene is very serious, you know. Helps you stretch better in all the right places." The pink-armored soldier said matter-of-factly, "Want me to show you how?"

"Dude, please stop." Tucker suppressed a groan and looked around the area.

He was surprised to see Lopez hanging around the cell of the Above Ground robot. It was a shame she turned out to be one too: her figure was pretty _fine_ in that armor.

"What the fuck's going on there?"

Donut beamed, stage whispering which Tucker was fairly certain that was the only kind of whispering Franklin Delano Donut knew how to do, "I think Lopez is in love! Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever seen?"

'Sweet' wasn't exactly the word he'd have used to describe it, more like 'odd' given the whole being a robot issue. But Tucker knew how much of a romantic Donut was when it came to that sort of thing, so if gushing over it made him happy who was he to judge?

"Speaking of which," Donut tilted his head to the other side of the large storage area that was serving as the Resistance prison, "Grif's been talking to that Simmons guy nonstop since he came back."

He glanced over there, sure enough seeing his friend's orange-armored back as he seemed to be animatedly discussing something with the cell's occupant. He was glad the dumbass had actually listened to him for once.

"They knew each other from awhile back. Probably just catching up." He said in response to Donut's comment.

Donut looked unconvinced, "I don't know. They seem _awfully_ close." He looked at Tucker with an eager, hopeful look in his brown eyes, "Do you think there's something going on there?"

Tucker couldn't help the grin that spread on his face. Considering Grif's earlier reaction to his "married couple" comment, he could only imagine how he'd react to what Donut had just said.

"Dunno, you'd have to ask Kai." He told him, "She has all the details about what happened between them the last time."

Donut was about to ask him something again when Caboose bounded forward.

"Tucker, I'd like you to meet my new friend!" he exclaimed excitedly, "He is also wearing a shade of blue! A real one this time!"

Oh, the old "whatever-color-Tucker-is-wearing-doesn't-really-count-as-blue" argument. Tucker sighed, letting Caboose drag him away from the 'lightish-red' member of Red Team.

"Hey, Tucker," Donut called out to him, "Since you're here early, I'm going to go grab the cookies I baked earlier."

He nodded and Donut ran off. With Caboose hanging out here like they're back in school, and the four 'lovebirds' chatting away Tucker supposed it only made a strange sort of sense that Donut would view the whole thing as a messed up slumber party. Not that he probably wouldn't have regardless, given his general outlook on things.

It almost made him wish he'd kept Junior with him for today. _Almost_. He wasn't dumb enough to not know how badly the whole situation could go in a moment's notice.

Case in point: Tex of all people was going to be joining Blue Team for guard duty later. He imagined that was going to kill the fun real quick.

"Church, this is Tucker, the one I told you about!" Caboose shoved him in front of the cell of a man with a black goatee and cobalt armor, "He is very nice, even if does not really have a dog."

Church raised an eyebrow and smirked, "So you're on his team, huh?"

"Yep."

"Sucks to be you."

He wasn't sure if he should be amused or annoyed at the sarcastic comment, but Tucker wasn't one to not bite back, "I don't know, dude, at least I'm not some asshole stuck in here having to listen to him nonstop."

There was almost something akin to respect in Church's eyes at the comeback.

"See, everyone is getting along so great!" Caboose exclaimed happily.

He continued, "But, since that's the case and I suppose that could qualify as inhumane punishment or some bullshit…here."

Tucker tossed two small objects at Church as a sort of peace offering, both of which the other guy barely caught.

"What are they?" he looked at the small, squishy objects suspiciously.

"Earplugs. Use them or don't use them, I really don't give a fuck."

The Above Grounder looked at him somewhat gratefully, "You know, I have this weird feeling that we could almost get along."

"I don't know. I mean, if Caboose is your best friend that means your standards must be pretty fucking high."

"He also dated the mean lady!" Caboose chimed in.

"Seriously?" Tucker regarded Church carefully at that, unsure of whether or not he was impressed or just in shock that the other guy was even still alive.

"I don't want to talk about it." He grumbled bitterly.

He whistled then, having a newfound sort of respect for Church, "I'm not sure if your standards are high or you just have all sorts of shit luck."

* * *

Tex stopped walking abruptly and York looked sideways at her.

"What's wrong?" he asked her, teasing somewhat, "Cold feet?"

They were on their way to the prison cells, as Tex had volunteered to go on guard duty with Blue Team since they were undermanned. It was probably a good idea: knowing Caboose, he'd try playing with the buttons the second Tucker wasn't paying attention and open all the cells. Or somehow blow the people in them up, his mysterious setting things on fire ability with most machines was legendary. It was a surprise Freckles hadn't considered him a threat the second the assault droid had seen him given that.

She ignored his joke (which was no doubt good for him from a health stance: it was always a gamble joking with Tex), her hands clenching into fists at her sides.

"No." she said curtly. She had her helmet on. She liked wearing it whenever dealing with more personal issues, he had noticed, and was staring out ahead of her at nothing, "Change of plans, York. We're finding North and Kimball first."

He was surprised at the urgent tone in her voice, "Okay. Why though?"

"Just got a message from C.T.. An extraction plan is already underway."

Shit, that was not going to be good for anyone, especially this soon.

York seriously hoped there would be enough time to prepare, though he expected not.

After all, Carolina was involved, and if there were two things she excelled at in combat it was speed and efficiency.

The third thing would be brutality when it came to her attack style, which wasn't really that great to be on the receiving end of either- no matter how good she looked doing it.

He frowned, shaking those thoughts from his head quickly, "Let's get moving then."

* * *

"So, um…how are things?" Simmons asked lamely, mentally kicking himself for it moments later.

He hasn't seen Grif in so long and that's the first thing his brain could think of to say?

Of course, he supposed he should be grateful he managed to get anything remotely articulate out at all. He damn well near puked when Grif had shown up at his cell again after their first disastrous exchange.

Grif seemed more amused by the question than anything else, "Can't complain too much. You?"

Simmons knew that really probably wasn't true, especially given all of the years and events that had passed since the last time the two of them had talked, but he focused on the question directed at him first.

How were things going for him? Horrible, really. He'd lost his captain, lost his mother, had lost most of his humanity (_had thought he'd lost Grif until a few moments ago_), been captured by the enemy.

Couldn't say any of that at the moment yet, of course.

Instead, similar to Grif, all he said was, "Um, good. I'm, uh, good."

Grif seemed to be able to see right through him at that. He always had been able to really. Simmons had been surprised at how accurately Grif could read him during their time together before. He has always been _terrified_ Grif would notice his reactions to certain exchanges in particular the more they had hung out together.

Grif raised a black eyebrow incredulously, "Bullshit you're doing fine, Simmons." He said matter-of-factly, "Look at where you are now, for fuck's sake!"

The anger in his friend's tone caused Simmons' face to heat up in embarrassment at having been caught lying.

But he felt something else too: a little bit of his own anger flaring up inside him in response. He clutched to it, desperate to say what he wanted to for once.

He couldn't do it with his father yet and with most people he'd lost the chance, but he needed to say it here, at least. He'd always been able to voice his opinions more readily in front of Grif somehow: that included anger and frustration too. He'd never really realized that before now.

"And what about _you_, fatass?" he asked quickly, "Look where you are!"

Grif seemed taken aback by the sudden fire in Simmons' voice and the redhead used that momentum to keep going forward.

"You said you had no interest in the Resistance!"

"You mean right before you left?"

There was an almost hurt look on Grif's face when he said it which caused Simmons to pause.

He'd felt guilty about leaving the way he had, yes, but he hadn't really expected Grif to have remained even remotely upset by it after all this time: things had obviously changed since then for both of them quite a bit, after all.

Oddly enough, while he knew he should be feeling even more guilt over that now (and he did, a little bit): the strange elated feeling in the pit of his stomach wasn't something he had been expecting.

_Maybe it was just because someone beyond his mom had actually cared enough to get upset over him leaving them at all. Probably._

"Er…"

Grif began talking before he could come up with something more coherent than a garbled noise, "Things changed, Simmons."

He waited and Grif finally seemed to take the cue to elaborate, "I was on Level One when Above Ground burned it." He said quietly.

"Were you…okay?"

Fuck, that sounded like a really inadequate thing to say in response.

The haunted look on Grif's face answered for him, "It was a fucking nightmare."

Simmons stopped himself from reaching through the bars to grab at Grif's hand. It had been too early for that back then when Grif had told him about his family situation and why he had climbed up to the rafters on Level One, far too early now that they'd just met again.

He thought of something else too: of the nightmares of Grif and a pretty fourteen-year-old girl who looked a lot like him despite how Grif never seemed to see it.

"Is Kaikaina all right?" he asked frantically, worry pulling at his gut again.

She had scared the living tar out of him a lot of the time and he'd hated the 'shy guy' nickname he had gotten from her even if it _was_ true, but the thought of Grif's eccentric little sister getting hurt in that horrible mess was terrifying to him as well.

"She's fine. She was in Low Town when it happened."

He felt a massive amount of relief at that, both for her _and_ Grif.

Grif looked genuinely touched for a moment that he'd even remembered to ask about her.

Of course, how would he forget to ask? Those few weeks he had spent with them were probably the ones that most stood out to him from his past even now.

"But we knew a lot of people who didn't make it." Grif's voice fell soft, his expression clouding over again, "Tucker's mom, for one."

Tucker was the dark-skinned boy who had been a neighbor to the two siblings. He'd seemed nice enough, in the same loud-and-almost-scary-way as Kaikaina had.

"I'm sorry."

It was another horribly inadequate sentiment to voice, but genuine.

Grif shrugged, with remarkable effort schooling his face into a less upset expression, "Well, that's my reason for being here pretty much."

He also probably felt it was the best way to protect Kaikaina too. He didn't say that though, and Simmons didn't want to upset him by saying anything too personal when Grif wasn't willing to address it himself yet. He didn't like when people did that to him, so he wouldn't do it to someone else. Besides, he really didn't want to get Grif so frustrated with him that he'd leave again. Not when they'd just started talking again. Simmons was desperate to keep this going as long as he could for reasons even he wasn't quite sure of.

He was almost expecting Grif to yell at him, to get angry and accuse him of supporting terrible people. And Simmons would have no defense for that, really: what had happened was awful and thinking maybe you could help to change things from the inside as you proved yourself was a naïve notion at best to keep clinging to, especially with his skill level.

It probably would be better if Grif did yell: it would most likely be true and would help to define what their interactions and relationship would be in the here and now a whole lot more concisely, even if another part of him was hoping for the exact opposite. Simmons had all sorts of conflicting thoughts: it would probably be for the best if Grif yelled, but he didn't want it to happen all the same and he almost could feel himself panicking at the possibility that it would.

Instead, though, Grif smiled slightly and rubbed the back of his head, "It looks like you achieved your goal though, Simmons. You're a soldier now."

He blinked, surprised at the lack of venom or accusation in the statement, "Um…yes."

"I guess being a nerd has its advantages sometimes, huh?" he joked, "I told you that before, I think."

Yeah, he'd said something similar once when he'd been impressed by Simmons' hacking skills. He still remembered it vividly because it was the only time someone had ever called him 'cool' before, even if Grif had still referred to him as a nerd in practically the same breath.

He smiled back slightly, really hoping his face wasn't as red as it felt or his normal eye as watery.

"I'm…not a great one, n—not yet." He finally managed to choke out.

The tan man scoffed, "I'm not a great soldier either, Simmons, but we take it in fucking strides." He looked at him pointedly, "I bet you haven't relaxed a day since you went back up there, huh?"

Simmons bristled at that, getting angry at the knowing smirk crossing over the other's still chubby face, "And I bet you relax way too much, Grif!"

"Tell me you at least got rid of the chore wheel."

When Simmons became red-faced again, Grif laughed, "Seriously?"

"It's a very efficient tool for time management!" he tried defending himself rather lamely.

"Whatever, dude." He was fighting back laughter now, his whole body practically shaking, "It's a tool for something, all right."

He wasn't even sure that made that much sense, really, and despite his frustration, Simmons couldn't help but smile himself.

It was strange how easily they seemed to fall into this pattern. He'd be lying if he didn't say that he had missed it horribly. He never felt this comfortable just talking to someone—_ever_.

Once Grif struggled not to laugh altogether and had finally stopped laughing, he looked up at Simmons' face with a sudden frown.

Specifically at the eye that cast the world he saw through it in a slight red tint.

The smile dropped from Simmons' face at that realization of what Grif was looking at, his hand suddenly moving subconsciously to block that part of his face from view.

He wasn't sure why, really. People giving him odd looks about his face and other altered body features after the surgery was nothing new anymore, but Grif looking at his face that intently made him feel very uncomfortable for some reason.

"What happened to your face?"

Leave it to Dexter Grif to be completely blunt about that kind of heavy topic.

Simmons said nothing, his brain trying to process from Grif's tone what exactly he meant by that. He probably thought it looked bad, but why did that really matter?

Grif took on a concerned look at his prolonged silence and the panicked expression crossing over his face, "Simmons, did you get hurt on a mission?"

_That _caught him off-guard.

Out of all the ways he'd expected Grif to probably react to his cybernetics, genuine concern had not been one of them.

"Um…no, I didn't." he tried getting the flustered tone out of his voice and failed miserably, "I—I volunteered."

Grif had a blank look on his face and Simmons let out a tired sigh: looks like he'd have to explain in more detail then.

"There was an experimental program awhile ago for cybernetic enhancements. I volunteered for it." He took in a deep breath, "It—it's not just that part of my face that got augmented. I replaced—some of my appendages and organs too."

Simmons tried faking a brave, prideful sort of smile (and probably failed miserably at it) as he added, "Sixty-five percent metal now: give or take."

Grif said nothing, looking the rest of him over as if he could see what Simmons was talking about through his armor. The idea made his face and neck turn a vivid hue that almost matched his armor and he tried really hard to kick that mental image as far away from his head as possible.

It was easy enough in a way to do if he imagined that Grif probably pictured something hideous underneath his maroon armor. That was usually how most people's thoughts went when it came to cybernetics even now thanks to movies from Old Earth despite the actual appearance of cybernetic enhancements not being all that terrible in reality. Still though, Simmons had never thought of himself as being that attractive in the first place: easy enough for him to imagine that augmentations of that level simply only added to that.

He tried really hard not to dwell on how he got upset by that notion all the same.

"Why?" Grif finally asked, looking him directly in the eyes again, both the green one and red one.

Simmons blinked, taken aback by the question.

"Why'd you volunteer for something like that?"

It if had been near impossible to talk to Sheila about that, it was even worse with Grif. He didn't want to let him know what a mess he'd been after everything, how sometimes when things messed up with the new parts or he was reminded of what he'd done he still panicked thinking he had made a massive mistake he could never take back.

Worse yet, it had only caused him to have minimal improvements at best, so either Simmons or the experiment itself was a gigantic failure. His self-esteem was so low already that he was leaning more towards the failure being him.

Grif seemed to read the conflicted expression on his face again. It was amazing how he could do that so easily in certain ways, but be oblivious in other instances to things Simmons was far too certain were extremely transparent in his body language around Grif to not be noticed at times. Simmons almost jumped when Grif actually reached through the bars of the cell and touched his shoulder in a placating, calming gesture for a moment.

"Hey, it's okay. You don't have to explain why to me." He grinned slightly, "It's kind of ballsy, in a way."

Shit, there it was again.

Simmons knew it really wasn't, especially since he had all of the technical details stuck in his head. Not only that, but he could _feel_ all of the metal and circuitry that replaced flesh and bone in painfully distinct ways: he was well-aware of what he had given up in a phenomenal moment of weakness and stupidity coupled with the irony of the vey little he probably truly had gained. Still, hearing praise of any sort from anyone always threw him for a loop. The fact that it came from Grif again, who had been probably one of the very first people to ever do so in his life, made that strange fluttering feeling form in his stomach all over again.

He really, _really_ hoped he didn't vomit.

Despite himself, he couldn't help but respond in a very silly, overly-eager way, "R—really?"

Grif's smile took on a nostalgic tint as Simmons' response had probably reminded him far too much of when they had interacted as teenagers, "Well, I'd probably never have the guts to do it."

Simmons couldn't help but give a weak smile back, "I don't know. You probably won't be thinking that way when I become cyborg overlord of the whole planet like in all of those old science-fiction series."

He laughed at that, "Please, I think Lopez and the other robots would beat you to it."

"¿Quién querría descartar que imbéciles? Tengo suficientes problemas apenas te toleran tal como es." _{"Who would want to rule you morons? I have enough problems barely tolerating you as it is."}_

"You never know though. I'd make chore wheels mandatory by punishment of death." He joked.

"Okay, you see, you just lost what little cool points you had right there by saying that."

The two continued conversing back and forth: sometimes just talking, sometimes bickering.

They talked about a lot of things: Simmons' time during his training and in the military (well, beyond anything remotely confidential. Not that Simmons knew much anyways); interesting stories about the Resistance that were more personable and not anything confidential either;; what Kaikaina had been up to (some of the stories Grif told were pretty hard to swallow, but Simmons supposed anything was possible concerning Grif's sister); Tucker's even more improbable alien pregnancy and the subsequent birth of his son (_"Hey, fatass, don't say anything weird about my family!"_ was heard a little ways away from them); Grif's C.O. who apparently had a far too unorthodox approach to most things according to Grif; and teammate shenanigans. Church flipped them the finger through the bars of his cell when Simmons mentioned his aim and Donut gave a cheerful wave and an offer to showcase his tossing when Grif mentioned him. Simmons really hoped meant his throwing skill and nothing else.

Simmons even mentioned Captain Flowers, though not that he was killed by Resistance fighters as he was unsure of the wisdom of mentioning that here. He even mentioned his mother too eventually. He tried not to let his voice break too much then.

Grif said nothing beyond a quiet apology and a sympathetic hand on Simmons' shoulder, which he was grateful for. It was bad enough getting emotional when he was always made fun of for it in the past, having it be brought to attention anymore than that would have been really embarrassing.

He'd almost forgotten that they were standing on opposite sides of a cell or that there were even other people around. He was just talking to Grif and that was the most natural thing in the world to him at the moment.

Even after the Red Team's guard duty shift had officially ended, Grif remained standing there with him. Their throats were practically raw from talking so much, but neither really noticed.

Eventually, they did finally reach a lull in the conversation though. He had no idea how much time had passed by that point: definitely hours, it seemed. There was still so much to say too, it was just a good point for regrouping.

Grif yawned, "Man, talking for this long really is kind of exhausting, huh?"

"You say that about everything."

It was good to see that some things never changed, at least.

Simmons tried schooling his smile into an exasperated frown though to further prove his point.

"And it's usually true." Grif grinned back at him, not at all phased by Simmons' pseudo-annoyed response in the slightest, "I could use a nap."

"What?" Simmons blinked, his tone incredulous, "Here?"

"Why not? I have perfected the art of napping anywhere, remember?" he puffed out his chest in pride, and Simmons remembered having a similar conversation a long time ago with him, "It's quite handy."

"But—"

"Besides, I'm not on guard duty anymore so it's technically free-time for me so I can be anywhere I want, doing whatever I want for a change." He raised an eyebrow at Simmons in an amused sort of way, "And I'm assuming you don't have anywhere else you need to be at the moment?"

"You lazy fuck." Even with the joking comment that came at his expense on account of his current situation as a result of a mission failure that probably should have annoyed him or made him angry a lot more than it actually ended up doing, Simmons couldn't help the smile that formed on his lips in the face of Grif's bizarre logic.

"I try to be." The orange-armored man joked back in response to Simmons' comment, causing the Above Grounder to shake his head in a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

With that, Grif turned his back to Simmons and dropped to the floor of the makeshift prison block—leaning against the bars of the cell in a sitting position.

He looked up at Simmons expectantly, apparently waiting for the other man to do the same.

The redhead swallowed nervously, "Y—you really want to waste time napping?"

"It's not wasting time if you enjoy doing it, Simmons." He said in that pseudo-sage voice he'd used quite often as a teenager.

Shaking his head slightly in disbelief, Simmons finally did the same. Turning his back to Grif, he sat down on the floor of his cell with his back against the bars.

He immediately made a face. This was a lot more uncomfortable than Grif had made it look. The floor was hard and battle armor was insanely clunky when one was not moving in it. How Grif could nap in any capacity in it probably _was _a testament to his self-proclaimed ability to be able to nap anywhere. Not to mention that his cybernetic limbs screamed at him in protest through all sorts of pain signals when he tried repositioning them in any way.

"Besides, at least this time I know you'll still be around when I wake up."

Simmons' eyes opened wide at that comment and he turned his head to try to look at Grif again despite the odd angle that it contorted his body into, just to make sure he'd actually spoken since it had been practically a mumble.

Grif wasn't looking at him though. Grif's face was pointed towards the space directly in front of him and his brown eyes already closed.

But there was an odd, slight tinge of pink on what little skin was visible on the back of his neck.

Simmons couldn't help the smile that spread on his face again or the sudden redness that he knew had probably appeared there too judging by how hot that part of his body felt once more.

And, just as quickly, in that moment sitting on the floor of the Resistance prison back-to-back as they were through the bars of his cell Simmons was struck with the notion that this very same spot that he couldn't adjust to earlier no matter what he did was probably the most comfortable place he had ever been.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Gah, I am not the best when it comes to writing romance so I apologize if any of that came out forced or read weird!

But, in apology for that mean cliffhanger from the last chapter I wanted to be nice and throw in some actual lengthier Grimmons this time around for everyone in order to end things on a fluffier note than I tend to do normally! :D

Next chapter is the start of what I'd like to describe as "when something really starts to hit the fan," so that should be pretty interesting to write with a bit more action and tenser sequences than I'm used to doing. XD

Anyways, I hope this chapter and fluff was well worth the wait. :) Thank you again for taking the time to read this fic!


	7. Chapter 7

Legal Disclaimer: I do not own _Red vs. Blue_ or any of the show's characters. They are the rightful properties of Rooster Teeth.

Chapter Seven:

To say that their leader did not look pleased was an understatement.

The regular soldiers and other military employees who had been selected (whether luckily or unluckily, take your pick) to go with them on this mission were understandably giving her a wide berth.

Hell, most of the Freelancers were doing the same, not wanting Carolina to redirect any of the obvious tension visible in her stiff body language towards them.

Even fully armored, her posture was rigid with hands clenched into fists at her sides, only mere seconds from drawing her weapons if a situation called for it. Not that it really made much of a difference as either with her guns or without anyone going up against Carolina was not going to be getting back up anytime soon. They'd be lucky if they ever managed to get up again at all, truthfully.

Washington was spreading his attention in all directions. First he looked to the soldiers opening up the tunnel blocks before them. Opening the gate locks took a pretty high skill level in computer programming that even most Freelancers did not possess. York had been the only one on their immediate team he knew to be able to do so, though it often took him awhile and that was mainly due to his knowledge of locks and security coding in general. He supposed Florida might have known how as well considering his infiltration background, but he never bragged about it if that was in fact the case. Then he looked to the other Freelancers milling about at the ready (and all pointedly ignoring one another, he noted), and then his attention fell to the mercenary in the steel and sage green armor who was being forced on them for this mission.

The mercenary was employed by someone high up in The Council, apparently, and Washington suspected he knew what that vague description really meant—though he couldn't really guess at Hargrove's game at the moment.

Spy and report on all fronts, those had been _his _only instructions. He didn't even know for what, though the implication of a war on two fronts, both within the military itself and with The Slums in general, seemed a likely reason for so much observation and preparation on the Chairman's end.

Fucking great.

He ignored the uneasiness that grew in him at the thought and he tried telling himself he'd moved past that the second he had made his decision, probably even before then, really—when all of the dirty little secrets of Project Freelancer had forced themselves into Washington's brain along with an A.I. just trying to shed them in there in his own desperate attempt to _get out_.

It didn't make a damn bit of difference anyway, so long as he was finally able to get away from all of this in the end.

Given the "stay in your own personal space bubble" motif that seemed to be the general consensus of everyone right now, Washington was somewhat surprised to note the woman in the silver pilot's uniform who approached Carolina rather fearlessly after a few moments had passed with him lost in his own thoughts.

He recognized her as Four Seven Niner, the pilot who had been responsible for taking them to and from their surface missions back before the whole project had been grounded, more or less, given everything that had happened.

It seemed odd, unnatural even to see her underneath the city when she'd always jokingly said during flights how much more she enjoyed flying over Above Ground than even _living_ in it.

"This seems pretty extreme for an extraction plan for three low-level soldiers." She said, surveying the activity around them. Her tone was oddly light and conversational considering who she was talking to.

Washington was halfway expecting Carolina to jump down the pilot's throat given how harsh she'd become whenever one of _them_ seemed to remotely question a mission nowadays.

Perhaps it was because Four Seven Niner wasn't directly under command or how they used to get along well enough before everything had pretty much imploded or maybe it was just that Four Seven Niner's comment was more an observation than the challenge or argument that usually underlined similar comments she tended to receive, but Carolina didn't seem to take offense to it at all.

He remembered the two of them sometimes quipping to the other during pretty intense flights—something about Carolina's new friends always seeming _so nice_ and whether or not "bumpy" or "crashy" were the best terms for turbulence that could sometimes be peppered with bullets during training routines

"Not really my call. A team of two could probably get the mission done even more efficiently." She let out a tired sigh, "But these orders came from the top."

"The big guy?" the tan woman seemed surprised.

Carolina gave a curt nod, "Not just the Director though. The Council too."

"Huh. That's weird."

The woman in cyan and silver armor shook her head, saying nothing. Washington imagined she'd been going over the whole perplexing situation in her head constantly since it had begun.

The Director and the Council's interest in this mission didn't really make a ton of sense, not when looking at the soldiers involved.

Yes, he knew that Simmons came from a long line of military men and that his father was actually still a pretty prominent figure within the military and the Council. But that wouldn't be worth the risk of a rescue mission, and from what Washington knew about the man, he doubted he would even waste the effort on one, especially for a son with as embarrassingly low military accomplishments as Simmons still had even with the money put on him from the cybernetic enhancements experiment. Given the overall low performance rates of the soldiers who had volunteered for the experiment in general the project had recently been considered a failure and an unfortunate expenditure compared to other military programs, so there was no reason to try to salvage another fighter from it as far as the budget was concerned.

Granted, the robot soldier Sheila might be worth a rescue attempt simply from a hardware spec stance alone: Virtual Intelligences took a lot of time and energy to develop, so losing one always hurt from a resources stance. But even looking at it from that perspective, it would have been a justifiable sacrifice if they left it there.

Leonard Church was even less remarkable looking at the records: distant genealogy on file to the Director and a service record that had no remarkable notes to it. One wouldn't even give him a second thought.

Then again, Washington knew a little better. His, _its_, memories were a jumbled mess in his head, but he could discern enough from them.

He didn't think it was a coincidence the soldier happened to share the same name as the Director. He was even starting to suspect the "distant relation" gimmick to explain that was a ploy too.

Plus, the Chairman setting this whole thing up? Washington was pretty sure he damn well knew for certain as well. Malcolm Hargrove was probably just trying to test the waters, so to speak: see if he could prove the theory true.

The Director, having perhaps realized Hargrove's game himself, was probably just trying to cover his own tracks at this point.

There was also the issue of the Resistance and the three defectors from Project Freelancer to consider too.

No wonder the roster for this mission was so overkill.

Several birds that could be taken out with one stone, as it were—all under the guise of a "rescue mission" that had been intentionally set-up.

He smiled grimly under his helmet. Nothing really ever changed, it seemed. Now they were just being screwed over by two people's power struggles instead of just one person's.

Washington didn't think the person he'd chosen to work for in this junction was any fucking different after all, but he was just tired and desperate enough to ignore the little bit of his conscience that still remained.

Well, more like he was just fed up with listening to it right now, considering what it had gotten him into in the first place. _Thinking he'd been making a difference and finding out how far from the actual truth that really was had just near killed him—quite literally given what had happened with Epsilon._

"So any particular reason I have to be the one to drive this glorified metal box on steroids through cramped places that will probably make the _whole_ experience one I'll want to scrape from memory?" Four Seven Niner asked Carolina a different question instead of continuing on the earlier train of thought.

She seemed adept at reading when it was safe and when it wasn't to navigate certain topics. Perhaps that was a sign of the intuitiveness that made Four Seven Niner a good pilot at work in other areas of her life.

She was indicating the transport close to the exit to Above Ground. It did appear pretty large and bulky given the heavy armor surrounding the vehicle. It was almost hard to believe it would be capable of navigating some of the tunnels at all despite assurances that it had been tested out in the field earlier just fine.

"I thought you might have wanted a break from being stuck in an office all the time now."

Four Seven Niner scoffed, "Being underground in that thing will probably be the same as being stuck doing mindless paperwork. Only dirtier."

There was an almost wry note to Carolina's tone when she spoke next, "Don't forget 'bumpy.'"

"'Suffocatey' works too."

It was rare to witness Carolina even remotely joke anymore. Washington was surprised at the tightening in his throat when he witnessed the exchange.

Maybe it was because it hit so close to home, dredging up memories of when he _hadn't_ known so much. When things had been tough, but oddly fun—when even hard-edged Carolina had softened just a little and joked with them from time to time.

_York. York had always been there then, and North too._

They'd be there, at the Resistance base probably. As would Texas.

He glanced at the tenseness in Carolina, knowing that she knew that too.

How would she react if she saw York again?

How would South react, seeing her brother?

He didn't bother thinking about Tex. He imagined both of the Freelancers would react the same to her. South blamed Agent Texas' defection for too many things and neither of them had gotten along too well with one another in the brief time that Tex had been active on the roster.

And Carolina—well, there had always been a tension between her and the Director's "pet."

He imagined the defection, especially given York's decision to participate in it, would no doubt have only increased that tenfold.

How would Washington react if he ran into them? How _should_ he react?

He wasn't really sure he wanted to dwell on it.

On the one hand, he could understand the reasoning behind the defection all too well now. Project Freelancer in general had been screwing each and every one of them over, after all. It wasn't like Above Ground in particular hadn't been doing the same to the Slums. Probably _worse_ even, but he didn't want to dwell on that either.

But they'd known even earlier than he had, had suspected earlier that things weren't right if nothing else—and they'd _left him_, abandoned him when he hadn't even been sure of who he _was_ anymore. Still didn't sometimes—events, memories, and emotions all a blur to the point where he was never fully certain what was something that had truly belonged to "David" and what had belonged to someone else entirely, still woke up screaming some nights about losing _her_ and he didn't even know who _she_ was in that panicked state: _Allison_, he would realize later when things had calmed slightly and he could breathe close to normal again. Allison always existed as the cornerstone of Epsilon's tortured memories.

Washington understood, yes, but he still felt betrayed and angry. Given his assignment it was probably for the best that he tap into that viewpoint more in order to achieve what he had to do for his own goals now.

Still, he hated that hesitancy that wormed its way into his mind whenever he thought upon it.

"That's the last bulkhead that needs to be unsealed, right?" he heard Four Seven Niner ask.

Carolina's gaze flickered back to where the tech specialists assigned to the mission were huddled together by a computer panel, the coding flashing along the screen moving at an incredibly fast pace.

"Yes." Her hands clenched at her sides again.

"Wouldn't using the green guy make that easier?"

Washington's attention focused solely on them once more at the pilot's question.

He'd heard her call someone that before. Only—that _couldn't_ be right, could it?

The A.I. Fragments that had been confiscated from the defectors had been put back into containment at the storage facility on the Mother of Invention for the time being. Omega had always been a risky gamble, volatile as he was. No one would probably ever use him again. At least he hoped not. Theta and Delta could potentially be implanted again once the restrictions were lifted, but there was the matter of them possibly not being loyal to the project due to their involvement with North and York that had to be considered carefully too. He doubted little Theta in particular would bond nearly as well with someone else as he did with patient, understanding North Dakota.

But with the way Four Seven Niner had worded the question, it almost seemed as if…

Carolina visibly stiffened even more at the question (he hadn't thought it possible) and turned to look at him for the first time. The direct, sudden eye contact terminated his trail of thought and he suddenly felt ridiculously like a little kid again having just been caught eavesdropping on an adult conversation he wasn't supposed to have overheard.

"Agent Washington," she called over to him, "Shouldn't you be preparing for the mission right now instead of wasting time standing there?"

He'd already prepared countless times before they'd even gone into the tunnels. He was fairly certain she knew that too, but Carolina's question was meant to be a dismissal: a warning for him to not listen anymore to something she apparently considered very much none of his business.

It was probably best not to ignore the message.

He nodded quickly, "I'll get on it right away."

"Good."

Washington didn't need to be told twice. He had learned well enough by now when to pretend he hadn't found out something he wasn't meant to know.

He passed C.T. on his way to the transport to check over the extra equipment they were bringing for the twentieth time or so. Odds were good everything would be where he'd last made a mental note of them being, but it gave him something to do and he enjoyed having something menial to focus his thoughts on for a change. She was tapping her right forearm nervously.

Another thing he was pretending not to notice for the moment.

He frowned, knowing he'd have to address it later. He just didn't know _how_ yet.

Washington really couldn't wait until all of this was finally behind him. If it ever could be.

* * *

They had barely had enough time to warn Kimball before things escalated to "very bad, very quickly" by York's estimation.

The walls of the small space that could arguably be described as a glorified broom closet, really, as Kimball had long since decided that being the leader of the Resistance didn't mean she was entitled to a lavish workspace when larger areas could be better served to house more men and equipment, that served Vanessa Kimball as her "office" at base started to shake very noticeably. Computer terminals flickered along with the lighting, threatening to plunge the whole enclosed space into utter darkness.

"Shit, was she sending you those updates while they were on the fucking move?" York called out to Tex as the rumbling continued.

The darkened visor of her helmet turned in his direction, "More than likely."

That alone was disturbing from several fronts: the primary two being that now they more than likely were totally going to be screwed since there was now no time to prepare for an attack that was in the midst of happening already in the corridors directly around the base itself if the shaking was any indication, and that the odds of C.T. getting caught sending them intel was probably a hell of a lot higher now.

Kimball said nothing, though from the slight incline of her head to the side it appeared as if she was perhaps listening or reading something on a private communication frequency built into her armor. Reports about what was going were most likely coming in to her from all over.

"It looks like they're attacking from the tunnels closest to Entryway 4B from Above Ground." He could almost hear the frown in her voice as she turned to regard them both, her helmet blocking her face from view: "An attack from only one entryway. Even taking into account the mazes and different branches the tunnels turn into, that's a bold move. Superior firepower or no, having one exit would be a poor strategy."

Case in point, the Resistance base was always set up to be impermanent and easily moveable if necessary and always took advantage of the labyrinth-like quality of the mines. People could slip in and out of the base at numerous locations, should it be deemed necessary.

He wondered if Kimball would consider this one of those times or not.

She continued after a moment, "But I'm suspecting that's not really the case here."

Tex nodded, "They're sending in regular military through Entryway 4B to serve as a distraction. While the Resistance is busy dealing with them, more elite soldiers and specialists will probably have already snuck in."

She was already moving to the door to check on the situation outside. No actual combat in the hallway yet, it look like—though there were lots of people running in every direction and distant sounds of gunfire, "C.T.'s orders are to sneak in to cut power to this section of the tunnels while that's going on."

So not only would they be dealing with heavy fighting, they'd also be dealing with it in near total blindness and with most of the computer and door mechanics off-line.

That would be perfect. Not.

"Should I try to get her to buy us some time?" Tex didn't exactly seem like she relished the prospect. Any action their informant took that went against orders would no doubt raise suspicion, after all, but she probably figured it was best from a tactical stance to lay out all their options on the table.

Perhaps thankfully though, Kimball shook her head, "No, the chances of her even getting a communiqué are slim at this point and her acting suspiciously would end badly for all of us given the stakes. We'll deal with the blackout if and when it occurs: our soldiers are actually a bit more used to power outages than I'm guessing some of the regular Above Ground troops are at any rate."

York couldn't help but grin, "And so their own tactic might bite them in the ass inadvertently, huh?"

A slight nod, "From a training, numbers, and technology stance we don't stand much of a chance against them directly. We have to take advantage of our knowledge of the terrain any way we can."

"It won't mean shit with the Freelancers though."

Kimball sighed and said in agreement to Tex's warning comment: "No, I figured as much already."

She turned to York suddenly, "Sarge is making his way to the prison area to get his team. Could you head there with him?"

"Sure." He glanced questioningly between her and Tex, wondering what they were going to do since neither of them seemed to be making a move to leave.

Kimball seemed to read his mind, "There's a strategy issue Tex had brought up before that we need to discuss still."

That was all the explanation he was going to have time for as another explosion caused the base to quake violently and that was motivation enough for York to hurry on his way to find Sarge.

He figured if he strained his ears to listen for the exuberant shouting, maniacal laughter, and shotgun blasts he could just make out in the din of the combat further away he would be bound to run into him eventually.

* * *

Waking up in general from a really good nap was a drawn out, tedious affair whenever it occurred naturally.

Doing so on account of violent shaking, explosions, and gunfire?

Pretty fucking brutal, especially when his brain was still in that sluggish, only partially awake point where it wasn't quite sharp enough to put two and two together yet.

"Uh, what…?" he opened his eyes groggily after a particularly large explosion rattled the makeshift prison area and hurt his ears, causing a couple of rock chunks to fall from the ceiling way too close to his head for comfort.

"Grif! Wake the fuck up already, you idiot!"

Evidently Simmons' brain was a lot sharper than the orange-armored fighter's was when it came to bouncing back to a more alert state. Or, more likely, Grif surmised, since Simmons seemed to exist on an always highly anxious plane of thought, he never really _ever_ relaxed to the point of being lulled to complacency. Sort of sad in most situations, but probably more helpful in ones like this.

Simmons had already sprung back up to his feet, an odd little grimace momentarily flickering over his face when he did so even as Grif was still in the process of blearily wiping the sleep from his eyes. Grif wondered if maybe it had to do with that cybernetic enhancement stuff Simmons had been going on about before. It seemed like it possibly hurt him sometimes, though Simmons had tried glossing over it in conversation.

Simmons punctuated the urgency in his tone with a kick to Grif's shoulder through the bars to help speed him awake.

Of course, this actually hurt more than he'd probably intended it to given his enhancements as well. Grif felt the kick even through his armor, the force of it almost knocking him to the ground.

Suffice it to say though, it certainly did the trick in getting him awake.

"Ow!" Grif jumped up and rounded on the redhead staring determinedly at him from behind the bars of his cell, glaring at the Above Grounder in annoyance for the extremely rude awakening, "What the hell, Simmons?"

Simmons gestured to outside of the storage area they were in, the sounds of fighting coming from there only seeming to escalate and were getting louder as the moments ticked by.

"There's fighting going on out there!" he yelled in frustration, "Now is definitely not the time to be napping."

He sounded understandably on edge given the context. After all, he and his teammates were prisoners here—unarmed and without their helmets too, locked in small cells. Even if this was some kind of rescue mission for them, they were sitting ducks and could easily become collateral damage in a firefight situation.

Tucker was moving towards Grif, already putting his helmet on.

"He's right, fat-ass." He said in that tone of voice Tucker only ever used in situations he considered pretty fucking dire, "Where's your helmet?"

"Uh…" Grif blinked at the question, looking around frantically.

Where had he seen that damn thing last? He'd been fairly certain he had brought it in here. Maybe.

Tucker was sighing and shaking his head. Simmons was staring at him in open-mouthed incredulity.

Church whistled from the next cell over, "Again, _great_ guard choices, guys. We're thrilled you thought so much of us."

"Oh, shut up."

Simmons finally managed to vocalize properly again after that little exchange between Grif and his teammate in the cobalt blue armor, "_Seriously_, Grif?"

He shrugged, feeling decidedly sheepish now, "Well, there was a lot going on and I didn't think I'd necessarily need it so soon…"

"You work in a rebel army base! Having your helmet with you at all times should be standard procedure!"

Wow, even when Simmons was reaming someone out for something admittedly pretty dumb he sounded like a nerd. Grif wasn't sure if he should laugh at that thought or feel oddly impressed by Simmons' consistency.

"It's around here somewhere. I think."

Simmons sighed exasperatedly and looked like he was about to say something else to him in annoyance over the missing helmet situation when another explosion caused the area to quake violently.

Instead of saying whatever he'd been about to say, Simmons grabbed onto the bars tightly with both hands. Grif tried to ignore the fact that he actually seemed to twist the metal slightly in the process of doing so. The maroon soldier looked decidedly squeamish.

Even Church had lost the smirk he'd had on his goateed face, frowning and glancing up at the ceiling overhead nervously.

"Shit, that one sounded fucking close." He mumbled. Then, almost as an afterthought, he glanced around the space again.

"I know I was relieved earlier for the chance for some fucking peace and quiet finally, but where'd that Caboose kid go?"

There almost, _almost_ sounded like something akin to slight worry in his voice despite how hard he tried to make his tone sound nonchalant and disinterested. He refused to meet anyone's eyes directly after asking it as well, as if embarrassed.

Tucker's back straightened sharply at the mention of his teammate, "Fuck!" he said in realization, "That moron said he was going to check on his dog!"

"Freckles?" Church seemed to relax slightly, "Well, if he's with the giant killer robot he's probably safer than we are standing around here like chumps."

Tucker said nothing, exchanging a look with Grif. Neither of them wanted to mention that because of the unease the assault droid caused at base, he was only allowed in the outskirt tunnels.

Which probably meant that Freckles had been near one of the first combat engagements and that it was quite likely that Caboose had been there too when it happened.

"Should I go look for him?" Donut asked from behind, nervousness apparent in both his voice and body language.

Tucker shook his head, "No, he's my teammate. Once we have a clearer view of what is going on, I'll go look for him."

"Sólo tienes que seguir los disparos y explosiones. Es probable que encuentres tanto de esa manera." {_"Just follow the shooting and explosions. You'll probably find both of them that way."}_

Grif turned to Simmons, who had remained silent throughout the whole exchange. His face still looked oddly ashen and his grip on the bars hadn't lessened any.

Hell, Grif was nervous as all fuck too and seeing _that_ certainly didn't help matters.

Before he could even think about what he was doing or why, he reached out with his right hand and clasped it around one of Simmons' in what was meant to be a comforting gesture. He had sometimes done the same for Kai when they were little and she'd had a nightmare.

"It's going to be okay, Simmons." He murmured, hoping that at the very least Simmons would loosen his death-grip on the bars.

Simmons said nothing for a few very prolonged moments, eyes focused on the gloved hand covering his own.

When he finally did look up at Grif again his face was tinted red, probably in embarrassment for that whole episode having been done in public, but there was an oddly determined look in both his green eye and his red tinted one.

"You better find your damn helmet, fat-ass." He managed to somehow say without stammering in the slightest, "If you die on account of being a lazy fuck I will _never_ forgive you."

* * *

Sometimes, Felix really questioned his fucking luck.

Granted, he had made some pretty poor decisions in the past. All for potentially lucrative assignments, but that was sort of par the course for someone in his line of work.

Everyone always had a motive behind their actions, after all. He'd learned that the hard way a hell of a long time ago. The lesson ingrained into his brain, his very _skin_, to the point where he would never fucking forget it.

Not that he dwelled constantly on the past or anything. No time for that when you were trying to get a decent paycheck. That giant computer terminal won't pay for itself, after all, nor would the freaking big ass mansion he planned to buy to house said giant terminal after he retired.

Besides, it wasn't like he wasn't constantly reminded of that fact whenever he so much as looked around at daily human interactions. His observational skills were second to none, both inside and outside of combat.

That's why he preferred his line of work to the proper military chain. Soldiers in general were motivated by personal wants just as much as the next person, but at least freelancers (_mercenaries_, he corrected mentally: it amused him to note that an _actual_ military program used the term for its operatives too) were a lot more upfront and honest about it in general.

Plus, he enjoyed the freedoms and perks that come with his line of work. He could pick who he worked for and decide just how much he was willing to stake and for what price too.

Maybe, in a way, that was why he had chosen to approach the Resistance in the first place. In a way, he could respect what they were fighting for: freedom and equal treatment for all, and all of that other feel good crap that looks really great and totally doable on paper but seems pretty much impossible to ever achieve in reality. So he felt slightly at ease with accepting the job as a result. It didn't mean he wasn't going to make sure they paid him every credit his services were worth, of course.

However "noble" a cause, a charity worker he was not.

Their leader, Vanessa Kimball, was also pretty upfront and open about what she wanted out of the partnership too. She didn't hold anything back and was brutally honest about what she expected of him if he hoped to get paid his full amount. She didn't hide the fact that if they hadn't been desperate for more experienced soldiers in general she would never have even contemplated his offer and would have probably rejected it outright. As much as she didn't seem to like his outlook and as much as she showed distaste for it, she admitted that she pretty much was just as motivated by it for different reasons as well.

That it was reality, harsh as it was.

He could respect that about her and he knew that the contract was a fair one when all things were considered.

He was also not getting paid in credits, but in tech—which translated to probably even _more_ credits through market connections than most soldiers-for-hire would ever see in a salary-based contract.

Working for a group that was stationed on a veritable gold mine of tech was a pretty lucrative prospect. Civilian-based, military-grade, alien: take your pick. Even just as scrap some pieces had value he could scarcely believe in the right channels. It paid knowing the right people and he knew _lots_ of "right people."

So, all in all, one could say he knew how to pick his jobs well. He would fight for the Resistance for awhile, then pull out once things got too heated. The contract had been pretty clear on that, he'd made sure of it himself.

It was a case of everybody winning, at least for a little while.

But, _no,_ the shit luck portion of his life had to butt in on quite literally the worst possible moment yet again. First day of starting his contract and apparently he walked right into a fucking ambush on the Resistance base.

A rock clanked underfoot and the two soldiers he'd been tracking (_Above Grounders, standard military by the more nondescript battle armor they were wearing_), turned around.

A combat knife was soon embedded in one of their throats and he was already moving in a steel and orange blur to disable the other one as his comrade choked out his last dying gurgles. A kick to the knee to make them lose their balance and a bullet through their visor as they scrambled to get him in their own weapon's sights to ensure they didn't regain it.

Felix was just _that_ fucking good.

Hell, the sounds of heated fighting all around him in the tunnels didn't even phase him.

He was a professional and he damn well knew that if the Resistance fell he could kiss all of that wonderful tech goodbye. Above Ground sure as hell had a huge "finders keepers" policy when it came to that sort of thing and they usually always considered themselves the "finders" no matter what.

Best to just randomly pick off enemy combatants as he came across them then if the fight was winnable, while trying to find Kimball in the chaos and get clearer orders. He had a survivor's mentality: it was _never_ a good or wise move to walk into a fight when the outcome was likely you being a bloody corpse afterwards.

If he was lucky, he could use this whole situation to his advantage and arrange for a renegotiation of his fee to boot. That would definitely be sweet.

Just as the opportunist in him was mentally patting himself on the back for the thought, turning the corner made him pause and self-congratulatory thoughts went out the window as "_Oh, shit~!"_ filled his mind instead.

The sounds of constant chaos all around him had apparently shielded the very recent massacre that took place in the nearby corridor from his ears.

The bodies of several Resistance soldiers, made easily identifiable by the mismatched and well-worn equipment they had on and the random assortment of weaponry they carried, were laid on the ground in a non-distinct, bloody pile. He counted ten of them, maybe? It was hard to say, given the not-so-pleasant conditions of the deceased.

He ducked backwards the way he had just came, apparently avoiding the group of Above Ground soldiers who had finished "cleaning up" the tunnel.

More importantly in his book, he also avoided the steel and green-armored fighter who was apparently leading them.

The numbers were already stacked against him, but _that_ pretty much cemented Felix would have been dead on the spot if he'd been seen.

"Let's move on then. We still have a lot of work to do." The gravelly voice Felix _wished _he didn't know as well as he did spoke up and footsteps indicated the group was departing the opposite way at the statement.

Felix waited a few moments, back pressed uncomfortably against the tunnel wall, before taking in a deep breath and peering around the corner once more—adrenaline pumping through his system at the very real possibility of a bullet heading into his brain at the act. _He'd always been a sneaky bastard, _loved_ to catch his opponents off-guard when he could._

Only the mercenary remained there, standing nonchalantly amidst the carnage. He was looking around and he almost wondered if maybe he'd heard Felix earlier or had seen a flicker of movement and was trying to pinpoint where it had come from exactly, but he doubted it: if the asshole had even suspected Felix was there, he'd be dead already.

No, it looked like he was _listening_ to someone over a comm-link. Either someone down here or someone on a very heavy-duty frequency on the surface.

"Understood. Will file an observation report as I go."

With that, the other mercenary faded from view completely and Felix really didn't want to think about the ways in which a psycho like Locus probably got his hands on camouflage tech.

Well, it was probably very similar to how he had gotten his very nifty energy shield a few weeks ago, only no doubt much more disturbingly graphic.

So now Locus could turn pretty much invisible at will, be practically anywhere, _and_ kill people even more stealthily than he had been able to do so before and he hadn't been a slouch in the stealth department in the past. Plus, he was working for Above Ground to boot.

That was fucking perfect.

Felix took a few more seconds to calm himself and then began to backtrack through the corridors he had gone through earlier. He wouldn't have risked trailing Locus when he was visible given what the fucker was capable of. Walking through tunnels with an invisible Locus was just asking to get shot or worse.

He'd find another way into the base somehow and then he was definitely renegotiating his contract with Kimball.

Having to deal with that dick in any capacity sort of made that a priority.

* * *

As far as actual mission assignments went, this plan from a strategic stance was fairly simple.

The infantry troops provided an initial distraction, mowing down any Resistance fighters they came across in the tunnels.

The Freelancers, in turn, used the distractions caused by the chaos to break further into the base and help ensure that there was less of an enemy group to deal with. If they found the missing team, great, if not—well, that wasn't _their_ top concern.

Only real difference on that end was that C.T. had orders to infiltrate where the power supply lines were for a large portion of the tunnels and levels that made up the Resistance base and disable them so that the base was only running on emergency power and then she was potentially to look for the missing team afterwards and secure them.

Washington didn't really mind that, truthfully. He had certain suspicions regarding C.T. at the moment, but he doubted she would put Simmons and the others in jeopardy, which was more than he could say for a few of his other "teammates" at the moment. They were probably in the best hands with her being in charge of their rescue.

The other Freelancers, aside from being assigned different "areas" were pretty much given free rein to move.

To degrees, of course, and at least on the surface. Washington knew most of them no doubt had their own personal motivations, possibly even their own personal orders. He wasn't nearly naïve enough anymore to assume that others in the group weren't given different agendas: he was proof positive of that himself, after all.

Either way, though, the end result of all of it was pretty much a slaughter.

He was actually _limiting_ himself on that end. He understood well enough why someone would perhaps _want_ to fight against Above Ground. He wasn't going to go out of his way to kill them if it wasn't for a strategic stance.

He knew many of the others wouldn't. South and Wyoming weren't exactly ones to hold back if in a mood and neither was Carolina much these days, though she generally still only took out those she considered potential threats—it was just, unfortunately, _most _people she came across probably could be construed as potential threats in her eyes. That mercenary named Locus—well, the things one heard about him were enough to make anyone's skin crawl. Definitely not liking that apparently he was on the Council payroll at all.

"_Almost there."_ C.T.'s voice said over the team comm-link.

"_Good."_ Carolina's voice responded back, _"Let us know when you're ready to cut the power. Everyone else, maintain radio silence unless there is an emergency."_

Someone in a mixed-matched outfit raised a gun towards him out of the corner of his eye while he was listening in on the communication. Washington didn't even slow down in his quick pace through the passageway as he pulled the trigger on his own weapon and the rebel fell down in an unmoving heap on the floor.

That was probably the fifteenth one or so, if he'd had bothered counting, but that was more than just a little disheartening to do in a situation like this.

Screw observation reports, once an enemy combatant was dead they weren't really an issue anymore.

No, Hargrove was more interested in equipment and gear, what tech the Resistance had at their disposal, and the general layout of their operations. The people behind those things and why they were here at all meant less than dirt by comparison.

That mentality was so similar to Project Freelancer's it could almost make Washington laugh bitterly. Best not to dwell on it. Probably best not to dwell on the people he was fighting here either for similar reasoning.

Of course, encountering a heavily-armed assault droid wasn't something he'd been eager to do in the tunnels either.

"ENEMY DETECTED."

He barely had time to duck forward as the wall behind him became peppered with a spray of bullets so numerous and forceful that it practically turned several meters of the thick rock that comprised it into a fine powder floating in the air.

_That _would have been decidedly bad if he'd been hit by it.

Best to stay on the move then, if he could get around the mech somehow…

His attention had been so focused on the large, looming threat in front of him that he had only marginally noticed the blue armored soldier who had suddenly materialized right in front of him.

"Wow, you are quick at dodging. All of the other people who played tag with Freckles are still sleeping!"

Not sure at first what the hell the younger man was talking about, Washington glanced down momentarily—noticing for the first time the assorted bodies of Above Ground soldiers littering the space between him, the newcomer, and the mech. All of them had various bullet holes tearing through their armor and bodies.

Fuck, how did he _not_ notice what he'd been walking into? His brain was still nowhere near as sharp as he needed it to be, it seemed. Even with the chaos going on with all of the fighting, that was a major tactical error he could not afford to make ever again.

Briefly, it crossed his mind as he was mentally kicking himself over that huge mistake that the robot was no longer shooting. He made a note of that, as well as that it seemed as if the stop was timed with the appearance of this Resistance soldier in front of him.

Maybe it was programmed to avoid friendly fire? As long as the soldier wasn't a threat keeping him between Washington himself and the sights of the mech might be a good idea. It didn't seem very likely the soldier was one at the moment given the friendly, way-too-open way he was literally bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited for Washington to respond.

"Er…playing. Yes." He wasn't sure whether or not the young Resistance fighter was just acting simple-minded as some kind of ruse to get him to lower his guard or what. It was a bad one, if that was the case: he was leaving himself completely vulnerable to attacks from every direction—Washington could kill him in several different ways in mere seconds if he needed to. Still, it seemed prudent to play along at the moment.

"There were lots of explosions and gunshots going on. It's almost like it's a birthday!" the Resistance soldier tilted his head to the side, "Only, I don't think this is a good time to be playing. Or napping."

Hm, so despite how he was acting he at least seemed to sense that _something_ was wrong. Only heavily removed from reality then, not completely separated from it.

"It really isn't." Washington found it oddly easy to fall back into the reassuring tone that he had used with his cats when he was younger in this exchange, possibly due to the childish tone the fighter was taking that seemed more and more genuine as he regarded his body posture and the moments ticked by, "You might want to get further inside the base with—ah, Freckles was it?" he glanced at the assault droid, recalling what the blue-armored soldier had referred to it as earlier, "This isn't so much playing as it is fighting."

He hoped that worked.

_Please don't make me kill you. I'd rather not. I'd also prefer getting that trigger-happy mech as far away from me as possible._

"Shouldn't you come too then?"

He blinked, momentarily caught off-guard by the innocent query. What was with this kid? Anyone else in his situation would have realized right away that he was probably an enemy.

"We should warn Tucker and the nice lady!" his tone was urgent, "And go help Church too."

"Church?"

That was the name of one of the soldiers from Simmons' team. The one who also shared that name with the Director for reasons that Washington was beginning to have very strong suspicions about.

Shit, this kid knew where they were?

"You know him?" he seemed extremely pleased at the idea, "He is my new best friend! Which makes us friends too!"

That was some pretty dicey logic there, but Washington really didn't want to argue it given the opportunity this presented and the fact that Freckles could still probably take him out if he wasn't careful.

Getting further into the base and possibly freeing Simmons and the others would help his mission a lot and it would help guarantee that they could get out of there okay in case C.T. wouldn't be able to get to them due to something unforeseen happening.

"I was…looking for him actually." Not exactly a lie, more of a half-truth (while technically on a rescue mission, the rescue part had never been his central focus on paper), "Didn't know where he was."

"We should go see him then. I bet he'll be so happy!"

"Sure." He was still reeling from this very bizarre turn of events, "Lead the way, umm…?"

Right, killer robot's name was apparently Freckles. He still hadn't gotten the Resistance fighter's name.

"Come on, Freckles!" he seemed overeager to go though, ignoring Washington's prompt.

"ACKNOWLEDGED." The robot's booming voice reverberated as he started heading deeper into the catacombs.

Washington wasn't exactly thrilled that apparently the mech would be with them the whole time, but he could hopefully figure out some way to deal with it by the time they reached the missing team. He noticed several of Freckles' guns were still trained on him, which would probably make things a little more difficult.

More and more equipment, furniture, and general signs of living began showing up as they continued their trek. They were heading further into the base proper, it seemed.

None of the fighters moving past them in a hurry paid any heed though. Distracted as they were by the conflict, they probably just assumed Washington was a Resistance fighter they hadn't met yet.

Which suited him just fine, since that meant his biggest concern by and large was still going to be Freckles for the time being.

Finally, it seemed to dawn on the young man that he hadn't told Washington his name.

"Silly me, I didn't say who I was, did I? I forget to do that all the time because I know myself!" he could almost imagine the Resistance soldier grinning widely at that, "I'm Caboose!"

Of course he was.

Washington noticed that his visor stared at him as if waiting for the other man to supply something as well. He sighed.

"Washington."

"Washingtub?" another head-tilt, "That's a funny name."

"That's because that wasn't what I said. At all."

Caboose stared at him with what was no doubt probably a blank look on his face to rival his visor and Washington sighed. Strange how he was trying to explain his name to a Resistance fighter of all things now.

But that was before the bullet whizzed by his head, missing the top of his helmet by a hair's breadth.

_Intentional miss. I'd been in his sights way too long._

He cursed himself for letting the bizarre turn of events with the Caboose kid and Freckles distract him.

"It's Washington, Caboose." A familiar voice coming from an equally familiar violet armor said, "After a province on Old Earth."

Washington was moving to the side behind a small transport that looked to be inoperable, gun trained on his former teammate the whole time. Freckles didn't fire, probably because his attention wasn't on Caboose and he hadn't fired yet.

Caboose just stood there, unsure of what was going on.

"Hey, Wash." North Dakota's eyes never left the scope of his sniper rifle, but he didn't pull the trigger again either. There was a hesitant note to his tone as if he was dreading this situation just as much as his former teammate was, "Fancy meeting you here."

* * *

"Things are getting mighty brutal out there!"

Sarge's voice boomed through the storage area before his red-armored figure even dove through the doorway, shotgun brandished before him as if expecting a fight even in there.

"No shit. We've been hearing it for the better part of twenty minutes." Church's sarcastic tone filtered in from behind Grif. There was an oddly approving look in his blue eyes all the same, "Sort of impressed you guys have held out this long though."

The older man scoffed, his visor turning in the prisoner's direction, "Damn straight we have. We might not have as fancy weapons or the numbers you Above Grounders do, but we do have strategy and the ability to kick ass all the same!"

"Okay, that sounded like an afterschool special that went horribly wrong somewhere along the way."

Tucker and the rest of Red Team were somewhat relieved to see York stepping in after Sarge. Any of the former Freelancers were definitely good to have on your side if there was a fight about to happen.

"Really? If that had played as one in a video reel, I'd probably have been a lot more likely to have paid attention." Tucker joked, though he bounced back to a serious disposition afterwards fairly quickly given the gunfire they could hear echoing outside, "So, what the fuck is going on then?"

"We're under attack, that's what!" Sarge was starting to pace impatiently around the area, body language tense and agitated. Not being directly involved in a fight usually did that to him, "Probably on account of these three here. Or at least they're the excuse for it." He cast looks at all of the prisoners in their holding cells before sighing, "Knew I didn't like that whole 'Surrender' option for a reason."

Church rolled his eyes, "Yeah and we were fucking thrilled with it too. Not to mention the whole 'getting killed' alternative was just fucking awesome also."

The ex-Freelancer in their midst coughed uncomfortably, shooting Church an apologetic look, "Actually, that might still end up happening regardless. Sorry."

"What?" Church gave him a blank look, the Above Grounder not sure what York was referring to.

Grif could practically feel Simmons tense behind him. He glanced over at him, seeing the pale redhead trying to school his expression into a more controlled-looking one and not doing the greatest job with it.

Surprisingly, it was Tucker who spoke up before anyone else on the subject, "Why would that happen?" he asked, genuinely sounding curious, "Did Kimball or someone else give out an execution order?"

Sarge harrumphed, "Don't be ridiculous. Executing them now wouldn't make a lick of difference. This whole thing's escalated into something else entirely."

"The 'rescue mission' is more than likely just a pretext. An excuse to finally take action in the stalemate situation we'd all been stuck in more or less." York looked pointedly at everyone in the room when he spoke, his gaze lingering especially on the three prisoners, "That's just how Above Ground operates."

"It is their usual pattern when it comes to tactical decisions regarding the Slums." Sheila's voice stated softly in agreement.

"Parece que los dos nos vendría bien un empleo diferente." _{"Sounds like we both could use different employment."}_

She inclined her head slightly, as if in agreement to Lopez's statement. It was odd to see the brown-armored robot almost fidget in a decidedly nervous-looking way in response.

"Well, yeah, we all pretty much know the Council views anyone who isn't them as chopped liver." Church shrugged indifferently at the sentiment, "Still doesn't explain how we could end up dead as a result of this."

"While we _are_ holding our own pretty admirably all things considered, the situation is getting worse by the second." York's tone was surprisingly patient given what was going on, "In a lot of areas around the base already we're kind of getting our asses kicked and it's starting to spill over inside of the base now too."

"Above Grounders aren't exactly well viewed here, besides." Sarge cut in, his voice gruff and serious, "Pretty much everyone knows you three were here before this whole thing went down."

"S—so they'll blame us for it." Simmons' voice was strangely quiet when he spoke, barely a whisper.

Sarge sighed, almost sounding regretful, "'Fraid so, son."

"Regardless of orders otherwise, we might get killed just because some of your fighters want to vent their frustrations on Above Grounders." Church's eyes narrowed as he spoke, realizing the direction of the conversation.

"There's a lot of hatred for Above Ground here. Especially its soldiers." The old man was muttering now, "If it were up to me, now that you're here I'd give you the option to join the fight if you wanted, but that probably won't fly with most people here. They're liable to shoot you so much as look at you."

"Fucking great."

Grif frowned, "So what are we going to do then? Stand here and wait for someone to come in and shoot them?" he couldn't even look at Simmons or the others at this point, an odd surge of panic rising in his chest at the thought, "We can't just let that happen!"

Sarge almost seemed surprised at the passionate outburst from his laziest recruit, though he quickly turned it around to the usual frustration he had for pretty much everything his orange-armored subordinate said, "Of course not, numb nuts! Everyone has their orders in this situation and right now ours are _still_ guard duty. If someone comes in here with murder on their mind, even one of our own, they're going to get a shotgun to the face."

Grif turned around to cast a reassuring look at his friend, but Simmons' eyes were fixed pointedly on the floor. The whole ordeal was no doubt incredibly nerve-wracking for him and Church in particular. Not that Sheila was probably thrilled with it either, it was just hard to completely wrap one's head around what emotions robots felt if you weren't one. There wasn't really anything Grif could do to make Simmons feel better—which sucked, majorly.

"Wow, I feel so much safer now."

Though apparently Church's way of dealing with the stress was to be a sarcastic asshole, like always.

"Oh can it, blue, you're almost as bad as Grif."

Grif ignored the questioning look the man in cobalt armor shot his way and sighed. Even with actual fighting going on, apparently Sarge would never give him a break from the insults.

He supposed he should just be grateful that he hadn't given him an order to run through the corridors screaming to distract Above Ground attention from the more "valuable" Resistance fighters yet. …Though he suspected it was only a matter of time before that order happened.

"But even if it's a fake one, it's still a rescue mission probably, right?" Donut finally chimed in, his voice rather shaky and not nearly as energetic as it normally was, "So, if these guys are returned then-"

York shook his head regretfully, cutting the younger fighter off, "There's no way to tell what would happen now."

"But—it might be worth trying still, right?"

Grif turned slightly, surprised to hear Simmons finally saying something about what was going on.

The maroon soldier seemed nervous at the attention as everyone turned to him, but he plowed on through, "If us getting back to the Above Ground troops means the possibility that the fighting might stop than less Resistance fighters could be hurt or worse!"

"Yeah, or the three of you could be killed trying to even fucking get to them!" Grif interjected so quickly that his brain barely had time to wonder at the vehemence his words held at the suggestion.

Simmons looked as if he wanted to argue back and Grif was already trying to come up with a counterpoint. Not having the time for dwelling on the "why" behind it didn't change that he really didn't want to see Simmons get killed here—or even the other two Above Grounders, probably.

York cut in again before either person could speak: "Wouldn't be worth the risk unless we had some security measure up, I'm afraid."

"So we fucking get one." Church was adamant, "Sounds like one of the only 'better' options we have at the moment."

"There's got to be something." Tucker grabbed onto one of the bars of Church's cell for balance as another explosion rocked the area just as he finished talking.

"You mean something along the lines of a potentially more secure route?"

It was Kimball's voice that had spoken just then and all heads had swiveled in the direction of the entryway to find her standing there along with Tex.

"Hey, cock bites, don't go deciding things without us." The black-armored figure said.

Church looked ready to spit something back at her for that when the entire base was suddenly swallowed in pitch blackness.

"Shit, looks like they found that power supply." York mumbled.

"¿Lo crees?" _{"You think?"}_

Four things happened pretty simultaneously following that.

The first was a distinct whirring noise filling the air just as the auxiliary power flickered dimly on. Not only had they been suddenly in total darkness for a few seconds, but apparently Donut had somehow managed in that brief amount of time to trip on an unseen object and hit the switches that controlled the cell locking mechanics.

So, secondly, the cells were open now.

Third, Grif suddenly felt himself being pulled back into something very hard and solid from behind. An armored arm snaked around his body from his neck and shoulder to his ribcage, effectively pinning his right arm to the side of his body in the process.

Fourth, and probably the most prevalent in his mind as he really wished he had fucking found his damn helmet earlier, the gun he'd been holding before was now pressed firmly into his forehead's left temple.

Richard "Dick" Simmons was shaking slightly, but there was a determined note to his voice as he somehow managed to steady himself enough to get out, "We're leaving. _Now_."

There was a tense silence for a few seconds, only broken by a rather surprised Church simply going, "Fuck."

A sentiment Grif really wanted to vocalize as well but couldn't because the arm pressing down on his chest and throat was _really_ pressing down hard and it was a struggle just to keep breathing—let alone try to say anything. Given how tense Simmons was, he probably didn't even remember how strong his cybernetic limbs could be at this moment in time.

Tucker and Donut both backed away slightly, though the teal-armored fighter's hand was gripping his sword tightly. Donut seemed to be fidgeting nervously, an apologetic note to his overall body language as he looked at his teammate given his accidental involvement in what had happened.

Sarge scoffed, shotgun pointed at the cyborg and his hostage, then swinging over to Church and Sheila as well once they started moving to join them.

"Son, ya really couldn't have picked a worse hostage."

Grif had to avoid the urge to give the old man the finger with his left hand, not sure what would happen if he moved around much.

On one hand, a part of him was really hoping that Simmons wouldn't shoot him. Hell, given how his friend had been acting earlier, a part of him really hoped he had maybe hit his head earlier and was just having a messed up dream.

This was _Simmons_ he was talking about, after all! Even though a lot of years had passed, he hadn't seemed to change much when they'd been able to talk earlier.

But he also knew that they were in the middle of a war too and things had been getting pretty desperate. Having a gun to his head, even if held by someone he considered a friend, wasn't something he _shouldn't_ have expected either given what was going on.

Simmons flinched slightly and Grif could feel the other man shaking even through their armor. The arm pulled even tighter and Grif had to adjust his footing slightly to keep his feet on the ground. Simmons was almost draped over him now—it was somehow odd being aware of that. He had to take in a few shallow breaths to get air back into his lungs.

"I—I didn't want to take _any_ hostage." He said, "Or hurt anyone. But we need to get out of here for everyone's sake!"

"So you figured a hostage would make it less likely any Resistance members would try killing you on your way out." Sarge's _actual_ military training seemed to show up in very odd instances, "Makes sense, I suppose."

Grif rolled his eyes. Figures Sarge would find some way to be slightly impressed in a situation where Grif had a gun to his head.

"That's your security measure then?" York seemed to understand what that meant too.

"But there's still the chance that some asshole wouldn't care about a hostage!" Tucker argued back, his tone angry.

He was right, of course. _Most_ Resistance members would probably give pause if one of their own was held hostage, but that wasn't a guarantee for all of them. If someone hated Above Grounders enough, the sacrifice of a fellow fighter could be well worth it to them in the end if they were able to get rid of three of them.

Tex turned to look at Kimball, who gave a slight nod in response. The leader of the Resistance stepped forward into the space then, clearing her throat to get everyone's attention.

"Before things get too heated here, may I say something?"

Church stared at her, recognition on his face, "You're the one we met when we were first brought here."

"Vanessa Kimball. I serve as the leader of the Resistance, more or less."

His eyes narrowed, "That's just fucking super for you. I'm sure you're very proud."

Sarge muttered angrily, but Kimball held out her hand and he refrained from saying or doing anything else in response.

"You had mentioned something about an escape route before the power to the base had been cut off, I believe?" Sheila asked, not allowing Church to say anything else either. Apparently she seemed to think it best to move the conversation along quickly given what had happened.

The woman exchanged a look once more with Tex before nodding slightly, "Yes. We may have a route to where some of the Above Grounder troops are located that doesn't have as much Resistance presence in it."

"And you were going to just let us out and waltz on through it?" Church scoffed in disbelief, "Why?"

She fixed him with a steady gaze, "Because we will be in a very desperate way if this fighting continues for much longer and I will not give your Council an excuse to take this out on the Slums once we're out of the picture."

When he said nothing in response as her tone hadn't really left much room for discussion then, she continued, "Whether it was a ploy or not, this whole debacle started as a rescue mission for your team. It's only a remote possibility that the fighting in this instance will stop if you get back to Above Ground safely, but it is the only chance we have at the moment for any sort of temporary ceasefire."

"Only way out of the cluster-fuck, as it were." Church finished for her.

"You're learning military." Tex sounded almost impressed.

He shrugged, "I was bound to pick up a few things, eventually."

"I bet your aim is still awful though."

He let out a tired, embarrassed sigh, "Shut up, bitch."

Sheila turned to her two teammates during the exchange between the former couple, "It does seem like a more logical plan than we would have otherwise."

"It's pretty much the only one we have at this point, Sheila." Church muttered, "Since they're trying to save their own asses too I don't think they'd lie."

"Of course not." Sarge harrumphed at the notion, "Why go through all that trouble when we could have just shoot you here and saved ourselves some time?"

With his two teammates staring at him and leaving the decision up to him (_fuck it, he sort of hated having been made the leader sometimes_), Church sighed, "Well it's not like we have much of a fucking choice, huh? Lead the way, lady."

"Thank you." Kimball motioned towards Simmons, who was still holding onto Grif in what could probably be best described as a death grip, "Now, if you'd just let him go we'll—"

"_No."_

Surprisingly, it was both Church _and _Tex who said that. The two stared at each other for a long moment, Tex ignoring the surprised looks from the other Resistance members around her.

"What? Why the fuck not when you guys have some secure route for them?" Tucker shouted in frustration.

"Why the Sam Hill wouldn't we want that?" even Sarge apparently was surprised by her outburst, "Grif could be infinitely more useful being a meat-shield for us during that time frame!"

Okay, Grif _did_ give him the finger at that point, but the gesture was lost on everyone since they weren't paying much attention to him right then.

"Even if we do use this supposedly secure route, we'll need a reason why we're no longer in jail _and_ we'll still need an added security measure to avoid any of your people getting trigger-happy on us." Church explained instead of the former Freelancer. He decidedly did not look at Grif when he spoke, his voice sounding more devoid of emotion than it ever had while he was here.

Tex nodded in agreement, "He's right. Having a Resistance member hostage would make the situation of their 'escape' more believable to Above Ground in general and it would make other Resistance fighters they came across more hesitant to try anything in retaliation."

"That's bullshit!" Tucker protested.

"No. It's war and a sucky situation besides." Tex replied flatly.

"So Tubby will have to come with us." Church said with a large degree of finality.

Shit. This whole thing was going downhill way too fucking fast.

Grif was almost glad to find that a weird sense of calmness was overtaking his nerves at this point, similar in a way to how he had felt when his mother had left.

If he wanted to see Kai again and if he didn't want to find out if Simmons would in fact blow his brains out over this, he needed to focus on that calmness, probably.

Kimball would agree to it and he knew she would: one potential soldier loss against potential countless more. It sucked but he understood it, just as he understood why things had happened the way they had. …Didn't mean he wasn't upset with Simmons still or anything (he was kind of _pissed_), but he understood it all the same.

She looked him in the eyes and just as she had when they'd had the conversation that eventually caused him to sign up for the Resistance in the first place, it seemed as if she could read what was going through his mind just then.

"Agreed." She finally said to Church, "But he is to be released unharmed when you get through the route, understood?"

He nodded.

Behind him, Grif could hear Simmons sigh shakily in relief. It was odd how no breath came through his mouth or nose at the sigh though. The tan man wasn't sure if he wanted to yell in frustration or feel relieved himself that his friend wasn't eager to see him get killed either despite everything.

…Both, probably.

"We'll try to." Church said, quickly adding to it, "Right, Simmons?"

"R—right." His hold tightened a fraction more and Grif winced. Clearly Simmons really wasn't aware of how strong his new body parts were.

"Besides," Church glanced over at Tex once more, an expression that was hard to place flickering across his face as he did so, "I have a feeling someone will come around to collect his ass soon enough afterwards."

"Of course. No one should leave teammates behind. No matter what." There was some other meaning veiled in her words, but damned if Grif could understand what it was.

"Damn straight! How else will I berate Grif for being stupid enough to get taken unawares in the first place?" Sarge yelled out as well.

_Wow, fucking feel the love._

"Fuck it." Tucker didn't seem to like the idea at all, but he seemed to realize that he had no real choice but to go along with it anyways—grudgingly moving out of the way of the small Above Ground group in the process.

Lopez surprised everyone, however, but stepping over to them and holding out his gun to Sheila.

"Es posible que tenga esto." _{"You might need this."}_

She accepted it gratefully, "Thank you very much, Lopez. I hope we meet again."

"Sólo espero que mis sistemas de refrigeración están funcionando normalmente para entonces. Estoy empezando a sentir sudorosos una vez más." _{"I just hope my cooling systems are functioning normally by then. I'm starting to feel sweaty once more."} _

Church turned to Donut, suddenly getting an idea, "Hey, kid, give me your gun too."

The younger man glanced nervously at Grif and then over to Sarge who gave him a quick nod, "Better do it just to make sure the damn idiots don't get killed and make all of this a waste of time."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, old man."

"Don't mention it, dirt bag."

Church took the proffered gun, giving a slight nod of thanks for it before turning to face Kimball again.

"All right then, so where is this escape route exactly?"

* * *

"It's done." She said over the comm-link, not really expecting acknowledgment for the remark and not receiving any. It would have been different if there had been complications, but her informing them of a routine mission run didn't really warrant any real response unless Carolina had decided to give out new orders.

As soon as the power supply was shut C.T. moved away from the terminal and counted the seconds until the dim recess lighting that served as the emergency power for this area of tunnels kicked in. They were programmed to come on whenever a major blackout occurred, but all of the main lighting sources and most other functions that used the primary power would be completely out of commission.

She was literally in the underbelly of the beast: the area that ran power for that portion of the mines was located under the Resistance base and off to the side farther away from everything. It was the power supply for not only the tunnels the Resistance was actively using at the moment, but for several miles of other corridors too.

Hopefully no one from the Slums had decided to wander through those areas today. They were going to be in for a rather rude surprise if they had.

Even from this far away, though, she could perceive slight tremors. The walls shook somewhat and a few loose rocks and debris moved about on the ground near her feet.

Above Ground had definitely brought the heavy artillery for this fight.

She was rather relieved to be somewhat removed from the slaughter, having only had to dispatch the odd guard here and there in order to reach this section of the mines.

Though being down here in general always made her feel strange in a way, especially when by herself. Try as hard as she could to avoid it, she would always start remembering _his_ talk on the place from having grown up here, from when he'd actually shown her some of these very same passageways years ago.

No time to dwell on that now, though—not when she had another part to play in this assignment.

Right, because shutting the power off was only phase one for her. Carolina had given her the task of using the fighting as a distraction to hopefully find Simmons and the others.

Not that she knew that C.T. was already well-aware of exactly where they were thanks to her communications with Tex or that the defector had arranged with the Resistance leader for Connecticut to have a clear route to them so that the mission could be finished as quickly as possible.

She was just about to head in that very direction when a message came in from Tex again. She frowned as she brought it up to read inside her helmet.

Slight change of plans, then.

With the situation at the base being extremely volatile, directly getting to the "prisoners" would have been problematic. Kimball and Tex had been forced to come up with an alternative rather quickly.

Turning to the terminal that displayed a power grid map layout of the area, she traced a line on one portion of it. While the rest of the screen remained a shiny black, a glowing white line the width of a narrow pencil point remained on that section of the map when she removed her gloved hand.

"_The lift in the shaft you specified is operational again."_

Her message to Tex was brief, but succinct. She supposed she was just lucky that she hadn't been on her way back when she'd gotten the alert. Any later and she probably would have had to backtrack to get back here or come up with another plan entirely.

"_I'll be at the transport then."_

As she headed that way, the Freelancer tried coming up with a believable enough reason as to why she couldn't continue on with the assignment that Carolina had given her, hoping that there weren't any more issues involving the situation coming from either side.

She was pretty much certain there would be before this whole battle was over with though, unfortunately.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. I was planning on having it posted last week, but the chapter actually kept getting larger as I wrote it and since so many things happen with this "battle" I kind of just wanted to keep going until I had finished. XD It has now spilled over into more than one chapter, haha!

This is actually only the first portion of the "story arc". I have it completely written up, so after the next chapter is looked over by my awesome beta reader it will be posted here. So expect only a one or two day waiting period, really. Hopefully the multiple chapter postings and what will happen next will make up for the longer wait!

Next up, *more* things go down—with plenty of Grimmons and other character interactions too (including the beginning stages of the Tuckington subplot for this fic, woot~!).

Thank you for reading and, as always, I hope this chapter and the ones that will follow shortly after are both enjoyable reads for you! :D


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